Beach Time

 

A sprightly young girl skipping,

Skipping sprightly, a sea-sprite

Discovering sea-worn seashells 

Sands spraying up, wind-tossed. 

Her head down, ever-searching.

Some thin-legged long-billed beach birds

Picking at sand, digging, then

Flitting forth in flight:

Sanderlings, a kind of sandpiper 

(I learn later).

A flock of spaghetti-strapped youth

Flying toward the sea, 

Leaping white-foamed waves.

Rose-coloured cherries polka-dot their bums,

Loud giggles bubble from their huddle.

Even the sun, wizened by billions of life-years,

Wanting to see, peeks around a cloud 

To see the were-girls becoming women;

Hopping the sea-bumps, they avoid for now

The undercurrent pulling them forever towards

An ocean of Knowing. 

And I the poet

Weak-willed, watching,

A stand-still witness

Doing nothing. 

What do we know? 

A jetty juts out in my vision. To protect them, 

Sun-wizened ancêtres threw down rocks 

Splitting water, guarding from erosion 

The beach hit by wave after wave after wave

After wave… 

                    the danger that youth

On yellow-bottomed (boogie) boards

Surf to hearts’ content,

The waves that wearied mothers 

And fathers-to-be entrust their many

Frustrations (oh so many) to wash away,

Wash away, cathartically.

What do we know? 

Let the beach-time banjo play.

We are warmed 

By the sands and skies,

Somewhere in our imagination.