The lanterns are swinging, are jangling away
held in loose unison with twine
and a structure provided by worn wooden planks.
The grass lining the beach shimmers and crunches, bleached and frayed
whispering politely, enveloping the divine
and crashing silver in bellowing ranks.
The water, the strict formation dictated by unspoken orders
glides in conviction
and holds stride for minimal gain.
The wind was holding, defending the borders
choking down the sounds of the unrest, providing constriction
never conceding to strain.
Nostrils burned and skin chilled from the offensive procession
sweaters stained from exertion
and awed silence was maintained.

Excellent poem and a runner-up. Well done! RS