On my 55th Birthday

On my 55th Birthday


How did years pass
in such quantity
with such stealth?

My memory
stretches behind me
like the sea shore,
The mist creeping silently
obscuring the moment
when I came out of the salt water
and began to walk along the arc.
A long narrow meeting
of packed sand and water
subject to shifting tides
and waves,

Voices mingle in the surf,
changed by the fine droplets of mist.
clear calls
from childhood out of sight,
muffled voices and creak of  oar locks
of boats that have left the shore
long ago.

The hard packed sand is littered
with stories, changed like driftwood,
honed, clean, smooth
Simplified
by the repeated waves of telling
and re-telling

Empty shells of past loves,
held to the ear
Roar their distant passion.

And millions of grains of sand,
people, places, cities, gardens
moments of kindness, warm hollows in which to rest
looking out at the sea, 
or cold, sharp grit of sorrow
and small griefs,

I walk the beach,
taking pleasure in the warm, rough sand,
the beautiful shapes of shell and wood,
the play of waves,

Now and then,
I scrape beach tar from my feet,
or spit out the sand which invades my picnic sandwich,
grating between my teeth.
Sometimes a rogue wave drenches me
from head to toe,

Mostly
I look ahead,
failing to notice the mist,
closing in behind,
and the uncannily long stretch
of sand on which I have left
tide-washed footprints.