No Ticking but the Tide
Come cold October
there’s a wintry feel to the coast.
Where the wind howls hollow through,
slicing pale grasses; and the incessant sea
keeps coming in the repeated strokes of a comb
on a bald head: habitual and pointless.
Gulls echo and bob above the sea, kite-like.
The sand, interred with each succeeding wave,
one wave, rolling in forever and again,
passes the time ticking off endlessness
and in its’ emptiness there is no measuring out of clocks.
No ticking but the tide.
An unpeopled beach is ageless, so I’m told,
and this imaginary headland is beyond time,
but perfect in unsullied nature.
The only time I see this scene
is with eyes shut,
remembering the tide is a Mexican wave
and never moves forward,
only jumping up and down for effect.