TIDES

Rising and falling,
sea birds calling
a trill, shrill
and resounding.
Surrounding the shore,
seaweed tossed and sands
of lost childhood, decay.
On a good day, you can see
clear across to Canada,
a cyclical sonata awash
in rushes and retreats.
Beneath the feet
of beachcombers, the warmth
of a million suns baking,
taking shells and driftwood;
a good haul for an early spring.
Still, the gulls sing
a redundant song, strong and shreiking.
Another wave rises, then beats
a hasty withdrawal. Through it all
you breathe the freshness abounding,
Rising and falling, your chest
duplicates the lunar lambada
of the Great Lake. Waters rake
the moistened sand on its departure.
Sunsets and crashes leaving colorful dashes
across the glinted surf. Tides return
to where they had come as the night descends.
Another day ends in the swell of tides.


Walt