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.
