21. Shingle Beach

21.
Shingle Beach

Each day I bring the chair down slope to the shingle beach;
Know the tides by now, cast weather eyes to the clouds and winds;
Place the chair where the seventh wave washes just below my feet.

I know what happens. I read a bit; have a little nap.
The tide will edge in, lap around my toes, or
The sun will start its shine below the brim of my cap.
Either way, I start awake.

Before I met you, I’d never used an emery board.
But after, before meeting, I would pare and polish each fingertip
So every caress would be as gentle, as tough, as required.

At the mouth of this cove there are rocks.
Low tide, a bit of surf; otherwise, just some swell.
Through centuries, boats, even ships, have sought that mouth
Before a western gale; some rode the high swale, most went down rough.

Jumbled bones lie beyond this beach; some sometimes wash up.
But some lively flesh leapt and swam enough to land
Gasping on this shore just where my feet are now;
Just where I too have come to ground.

On this shingle beach,
Each stone polished smooth as fingertips,
Each wave does its work and
Each tide stirs its pot and
The improbable world spins and
The moon pulls its weight and
The sun starts below my brim and
So, awake… again.

Emery in my right hand;
Your final letter in my left. 
I must dream still, for in the distance 
A mermaid chants "Bereft... bereft..."

Here no one knows what happened.
Here no one knows what history held.
Here is but purgatory, where old bones moan
And cry out "I would not, by choice, have left."