Carkeek Poems: Tides 2

They stoop in the shallow water
mimicking their ancestors, our ancestors
who sustained themselves with these precious proteins
delicious

their descendants, with bellies perpetually full
still stoop
still looking for they know not what

soon the tide will roll back in
inundating this place of bounty
then we will have to look elsewhere

If only I could fly high above
then the whole world could stretch out before me
as this alluvial fan of seaweed forms its perfect river bed
tributaries, boulders, peninsulas, creeks, roamed by gigantic black birds

(though now I am worried by terminology--"alluvial"?--
but fortunately the crows don’t care
the waves don’t care
the drying, soon to be inundated seaweed doesn’t care)

here, in this breeze that waters my eyes
I can take in patterns
I can grasp the whole
see my place in it
this 20 or 30 square yards is enough
should be enough
for my spirit to settle in and make a home

(all that ambition, grand plans, complications….)

here, a bit of seagull fluff drifts by, a tumbleweed in this watery desert

(some pleasure boats out there, with their plans and purposes,
call me back to that other self, the unreal one)

I’ll just leave my shadow here until tomorrow

Again today there is that pearly luminous painterly wash of green-into-grey
the mountains slumber invisible

across the beach
on the tidal flats
a solitary walker
pink pants
red jacket
floats
a little concentrated spot of assertion
amidst all that allowing

she comes toward me and walks past
clutching her coffee cup
I want to call out to her
show her the photos I’ve taken
so inspiring to me
but I don’t, and she moves past
the ephemeral connection attenuates and is gone

I am left, relieved and a little sad, in the fog

a group of women
plump, pleased,
towels around necks
preparing for a morning swim

walking between them and the water
I come across a line of pale rocks on darker background
signaling my path up the beach

but there is a twist in it
pointing me not to the safe haven of my accustomed log
but out into the water
that swimmers’ paradise
that place of dreams
beyond language such as this

you call me out to the deep

I turn toward shore
write a poem
and wonder

There’s a continuous field of cobbles
two four or six inches in diameter
over which I stumble most days
(except when the tide is high)

In one place there is a gap
where the cobbles have been pulled back
revealing a gash, a smile, a tear in the fabric of the beach
its sandy underdrawers

elsewhere the algae gleams in the rising sun
startling green

from time to time something
unexpected shines through
I don’t know why

Butts like mine
pecking crows
some degree of wind and sand
bleaching of the sun

this alder log washed up on the beach in a spring storm
is gradually divesting itself
being divested
of its protective layer
slowly disrobing
and under its gray bark
a thin rust-red layer
is gently polished into the persistent silver of its weathered core

it will take a long time to wear away to nothing
probably years
more years than I have

I am wearing away too

Beard of green
dripping
shadow-casting
left by retreating tide

I have seen this particular piece of driftwood before
floating, bobbing, disguising itself as animate creature
now an elder of the beach (perhaps an alder-elder)
coming to be at peace with its slow decaying

borrowed green shaggy locks glitter in the rising sun
borrowed life as all life is borrowed

all life hangs from us dripping
casting shadows
rendering us beautiful
regardless of our intentions