Tides

In other tides, I would have risen, rough, in dark grey-green;
and hurtling wildly I would crash, with a roar, into the rocks.

I would tousle the seaweed, confound the fish, pluck out the shells –
and would slash the dunes to bleed them of all footprints, that I would
swallow, wave by wave, in flooding rage;

Yet, I would then regurgitate, turned into foam, the last, ephemeral specks
of their memory, so that the wind would erase them to forgetfulness -
in a breath.

Perhaps I would have even cast onto the shore, and in the open,
the scorched face of waits, in fragments of wood, scraps of sails and ghosts -
my return (or oblivion) of all the wrecked discoveries.

But not in this tide of being, because I let myself, a saline mirror -
so compliant and, indeed, so pliant that it will, indistinctly and with
a serene glow, return, in reflection, sun or moon;

Or, with a quiet ripple, a tear from any eyes that, weary
of looking for them far away, in the horizon -
may lay their dreams to rest on me, upon arrival.

-- © 2007 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®