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)