The Beach

The sand beneath our feet loosens

With each curl of familial toes.

The clean arch of your back

And your knees to the unravelling kingdom

As you speak to me - to anyone -

Of the dry, dead heat.

Translating an ancient tongue, I bend

To join you at the base of

Statues, which from our toil, rose to

Shade our burning slumber.

"We are born of these broken shores",

You say, "and so must swim a little more".

"The sea today is no place for progress",

I reply, "and sleep the surer death".

But morning is the virgin clouds

And the fire burns a lesser feast.

The once-golden grains carry me

To the world's open mouth

And, as a child, I throw pebbles

At the flotsam which becomes upon

Each new crest a prisoner of the rhythm.

Until, where we had stood with

The flame of summer at our backs,

I spy, in ghostly hand, the language

Of Captain Oates; of righteous impatience.

"We are born of these broken shores",

It says, "and so must swim a little more".