On the Point

On the Point

Restless, restless the surf beat whispers,
telling stories at two in the morning,
turning the agate and amethyst pebbles in its mouth
like Demosthenes practising.

Crisp, white sheets - white as the ocean's
antimicasser foam,
cool me and smooth out summer-heavy limbs
as I listen, watchful, wakeful
in the sea-reflected gloaming of my room.

No seabirds cry. They ride,
soft breasts against green glass
rolling cold, cold and moving deep.

Salt slap and hush, hush,
murmur of Tantalus reaching for
weed-dripping rock pools,
missing, falling, slipping back
with a tired sigh and tears of spray.

Ten thousand thousand barnacles gape,
silver gills flutter and
iridescent microdots dance in grateful gluttony.

So much, so much.
So much life rising, receding,
so much moving, so much death
with only a slipper shell moon to watch
and me to hear
the hiss of sea mist gather.

Rain gurgles down gutters,
floating me down toward liquid sleep
in a night that drifts out to sea
forever.