Odysseus

Our shores are never wind-free

Gentle or rough

Wind brushes the rocks and beeches incessantly

They used to say that a girl should brush out her hair with a hundred strokes 

To bring out it's true beauty

But our shores are brushed with millions of of strokes

Does it matter whether that be for a million years, or for ten million, or more?

Surely not. Forever then, from our perspective.

Ages are born and die

Tides flow in and out

Entire civilisations rise and fall

And the wind, and the sea, know not a whit

Nor do they care.

Driftwood accumulates on the shoreline.

The wood, washed clean of memory 

Worn smooth by time and tide

Bleached by sun, baptised by sea, mummified by salt

Driven by wind and tide

Resting half-buried in sand and seaweed.

It teaches nothing.

It is inscrutable.

Odysseus, a young man,

Stood on the shore of the Aegean

Looked out over the water

And knew what he had to do.

Odysseus, an old man,

Steered his ship to shore

Turned his back on the water

And entered his hallway.

A great distance separated these two 

Yet Argos recognised the elder,

Stood up, walked towards him, and died.

Just for this the dog had waited.