On the Beach

The waves roll in, retract, roll in again -
before their force their helpless spoils are blown
upon the sullen land - the cove, the rocks
a semi-circle, staring down upon
the constant turmoil. Playfully, the brash
cold sea will toss its weeds ashore - the strands
of ragged mourning for the loss of time
and innocence undone, the fleeting joy
of riding on the crest - and then it leaves
a line of shells that crunch beneath the feet
of any windblown walker. This is not
a day for bathing. Even when the sun
breaks through the clouds, the sea moans in your ears
and on the soaking beach the surf's about:
a fine, thin rainbow spray that smells of tears.