Beached

There is not enough time. Children
Splash through water that they wish could be
Eternal. Sandcastles rise and fall
With devastating speed. Mothers
Cling to their magazines as evidence of existence.

I hate this place, now. People
Swamp the sand, spread over the shingle,
Snub the stones. The sea is terrified –
Coming only so far as it must with each wave,
Hating to push them backwards.

Every sand grain glares. At five
The tourists depart, leaving their imprints:
Wrappers and coke cans, messages scratched
With sticks. They are scrubbed clean
By water and salt, a larger hand.

I’m free to come. I am the night flotsam.
I appear with the promenade lights,
With the light’s departure. The beach is a beast;
I am its rider. I cruise the surf,
Whitecaps carry me

To far reaches, never leaving this bay.
With a final wave
I am thrown to the stones
Where I leak in between them. Dawn will find me
In stasis, under my fellows, my sisters. Beached.

(1989)