A Walk on Rockaway Beach
We walk over the sand dunes
the sound of the waves
shifting,
the smell of the sea
ever present.
Our feet sink in to soft sand.
We look along the shoreline,
unpeopled, open.
We clamber on logs
migrated from the mountains,
swept out, returned by tides.
Stacked by Pacific storms.
The Beach House
I know the place,
built by my brother
as the family retreat,
go there in mid-night's gap
between
awake and asleep.
I see
unmade roads,
feel rough stones
beneath my feet.
Relax
on smooth sand,
calmed
by the ripple of the sea.
I never visit
during winter storms
when the beach is shifted
by the force
of long-distance waves which rise
and,
pulling the sand with them,
retreat.
I watch the ocean, the empty shore,
then turn back to the house,
look forward to welcoming
the rest it offers,
the memories that will comfort me
as I drift into sleep once more,
hoping a complete awakening
can be delayed.
___________
Bert Molsom retired early to become an apprentice poet, understanding such apprenticeships never end! His work has appeared in Acumen, Anthropocene, Dust Poetry, Fenland Poetry Journal, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Prole, Sarasvati and The Ekphrastic Review (USA)
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