Washed Up (Poetry)

The sea takes all in its own time —
sucks up the brightest, clearest shard of glass
sun-glittering and sharp against the water’s edge
and mauls it — rolls it with a salted tongue
until its shape is blunted — smoothed to dull —
that easy cut and slice a memory
washed clean away.

Pebbled now — its origin obscure
and jostled among flints — well-rounded stones
without names they have no purpose but to roam
and chatter beach to beach —
a homeless crowd of used-to-bes undone
by history unravelling along
endless shorelines.

An ocean jewel — misty as an eye
reflecting on its blindness to recall
another life the elements have claimed.
The moon arcs callous — full in her disdain —
aloof to the desires or prayers of men —
she drags the tides regardless
sanding rock and bone.

And what once was bottle, goblet, dimpled
                                tankard, flute
has marbled in the rough and tumble shake
to clouded pastels — aqua artefacts
from summer picnics or romantic trysts
the wine and beer long-drunk
their dizzy fizz and gurgle pop
parodied by surf.

Lovers hear those voices fused in song
starlit waters mutter — sigh each chorus through
and gently rattle baubles — orchestrate the theme
with sliding rhythms — chinking, raise a toast
to past and future as the shingle slips
and inches out — obeys the coastal drift
gems winking in its wake.

The lone beachcomber in the dawn collects
a modest hoard — picks up — considers and
                                throws back
one token piece aimed to appease
possessive gods imagined in the deep
to keep account of every shell they own.
He sorts with care — pockets oddities — takes maybe
a dozen relics home.