Erik Dutton
The waves come soft at first upon the shore;
Subside in gentle ripples once again,
And vanish in the dark and silent depths
To be called forth once more with loving touch
And the whisper of the wind’s silent caress.
And now the tide comes in, a subtle surge
Of power rising upwards from the deep
And holy places only lovers know,
To touch the land for one brief space of time
And return to the fountain-source below.
The wind repeats her timeless words of love,
Whips up the first flecks of wave-cresting foam
And brings the sea more firmly to the sand;
Her touch is more insistent, less unsure
As she frees the sea to follow her command.
The waves are breaking now upon the shore –
The crash and rumble with a deep, full laugh
Like a god at play. They toss and touch and tease
And kiss the sand, lay salt upon the skin,
And still the whispering wind says, “I am pleased.”
The storm is passing, ocean falling still,
And the wind speaks only as a gentle breeze
Blowing across the storm-tossed reach of shore.
But still the ripples come, caress the sand,
With the promise of the storm to rise once more.
neosalexandria 