High tides
eat the beaches
and wash the footprints
from the sand.
The natural swell
of an asynchronous orbit,
made only more egg-shaped
by the company of our Moon.
When the tide goes back out again,
it will expose the bottom feeders
and leave the rocks and beaches
covered in flotsam.
Crabs will scuttle about
the human remains that come,
brightly colored,
immortal plastic.
Discarded memories
rejected by the Earth’s single consciousness.
In, or out,
waves lap the shore.
Emerald green,
or slate grey, foamy breakers
roll in with manic regularity,
depositing fresh sand
and taking away everything else,
eventually.
Sitting here,
on this rustic little bench,
obviously cobbled together
with scraps of wood,
and with a small driftwood fire
burning at my feet,
and a glass of rum within reach,
I can stare out
and lay my gaze somewhere between
the forever sea,
forever sky;
doing my best to forget
that a terrorist just killed 80 people
who were celebrating a holiday.
Unsuspecting men, women, children,
caught by the high tide
of evil men
and savage rationale;
who, in the name of some insane God,
come with asymmetrical warfare
to wash away footprints
and leave garbage,
death and carnage
in their wake.
I take a long drink from my glass,
and head inside to bed.
Tomorrow will be a long day,
of cleaning beaches.
HG – 2016
