Echoes Along Some Strewn Shore

Echoes Along Some Strewn Shore

Waves crawl and crash along some strewn shore.
Faded ghosts of land walked on shelled sole, 
breaking in stride the salt wind blown.

Strangered company of creed, nation, and dialect, 
brought as one between pincers rich and poor 
under the watchful gaze of fake lighthouses.

Out on steeple sat watched on with eyes meek, 
that salt wind whispered sweet nothings -  
echoes along some strewn shore.

Bleached sand, white alabaster cut waves: 
furled hemming that hides away empty, 
centers rid their sight plainview.

The wishing and washing perpetual, 
swaying the moon's crescent shadow 
over rock, beach, and mollusk.

Naive lovers lay buried in seaweeded dunes, 
some broken and fragmented like shells, 
some free-roaming - the only few.

My own, alone, longing elation, 
washed up and wayward 
breaking before these boundaries.

Breaking before this new dawn; 
sunset eyes - wide and smiling; 
salted lips - warmth and porcelain.

Swept me away along with the breeze; 
that momentary spark of stillness, 
a cruel glimpse of life that could be.

Calling out to me from the shoal, 
to ask if I would join the to-and-fro -  
a water-kissed dance between toes.

"It's not my time," I'd whisper: 
for my skin does not shine, 
and to brine my hair would go.

But still you go and I remain; 
My ego homeless and steely, 
so stubborn and lonely.

I must turn away, face my familiar land - 
hide my shame and my angst - 
ask of courage for a lending hand.

It had answered but rationale took reign: 
"You cannot swim, you must not play this game - 
an empty heart is only ripe for pain."

My thoughts, bled out on the sky 
then bled to the ground hesitant; 
bled down the scraggy beach's meander.

This beach resembles a memory, 
unknown and familiar; fragile inevitability; 
A salted blue infectious in its candor.

I turn to look back in my languor, 
now those ghosts are now nothing but echoes, 
along some silted strewn shore…

Giuseppe Gillespie – August 2022