The Source

Byron Levey

The ancient shore again.
I teeter atop its soiled birth,
graveyards seep between little toes.
A crab eye, a fish tail,
the shattered remnants of shell.
What haven for those whose business is to
borough, scurry and feast.
But even in softly sleeping sands,
they too return
in Time.

Oh, but what a find, a shell unscathed,
one worthy of the chester drawer.
Salts rubbed in like a fine smelling polish.
The owner still lingers inside,
leglessly digging through heavy air.
So, to the sea a gentle toss,
shells always last through rotten flesh.
Until a pinch more sand is soiled
in Time.

Reflections retreat amidst each stride,
fewer crabs waltz to the ocean's breath.
A boat sails past, nets released, flags flying high.
A gentle calloused wave abreast.
Young eyes flash through scaled skin.
His father's boat, his grandfather's ship,
to be left soon to a stronger son
Until sails reek holes to watery winds,
Grandsons may find other things to do
in Time.

A wave returned, a smile back
the face forgotten in tides of thought.
The sea has no memory of me.
Like a fisherman forgets the crabs he's caught.
Looking back I smile, I see
footprints hungrily eaten up.
Different salts beat through a different sea.
My life too, this old friend winks,
shall return
in Time.

LitNet: 02 September 2004

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