Self treads on water swept by wavelets: drop-
lets falling draw dark rings upon the sand
A finger’s breadth below the surface and,
In between new wavelets wiping bare the top,
Bursting to nothing circles fade and stop
Sooner than Swiss watchmaker’s smallest hand
Ticks off one second. Each brief pulse began
As spatter flung from trudging toes, plip-plop.
Landwards, gazing discerns a wayward track
Where spine-tied feet dodged the big waves, a weav-
ing in and out between the bric-a-brac
Of seaweed and dead things the high tide heaved
On shore. So many momentary things.
Earth binds me to itself with breaking strings.
We all love the beach, the youngest for its physical excitement, their elders for its imagery. Beaches are a kaleidoscope of elements and metaphors, all with something to do about life.
Current edit: 14 June 2014