A Windy Afternoon on Gordon Beach
My notebook pages flutter in the wind,
in harmony with the cresting surf.
It’s almost summer – the sun is warm.
Its heat keeps me comfortable amid a stiff cool breeze.
The sky is piercing blue, but clouds gather
on the mountains across the Strait.
My thoughts echo this meteorological moment;
unstable, mercurial, transient.
The surf is an undisciplined mind,
unrelentingly crashing against the shore.
of pointless splash and foam.
There’s a pulse in the salty air –
unimaginable storehouses of flow
lie just under waves.
I could sit here forever,
if not for the sound of my conscience.
Even the regular, solid chunk of dying waves
cannot drown it out.
Will there come a time
when I can just let go?
When all there is
is wind, wood, and the stormy sea.
Is it now?
I see thick, heavy clouds
looming over hazy mountains.
The Strait a dappled tapestry
of sparkling light and whitecaps.
Green rollers veined with a champagne froth
Fronds of wild grass wave in the wind
as a crow flies by.
I look at the stones before me.
Worn smooth, in time,
by that unrelenting flow.
I think, like those stones,
we are all worn smooth.
I close my notebook,
and its pages cease to flutter.