No thought or formula,
No belief or religion
Can stop your wiles
Endless foolery perhaps;
A trickster to crack a trickster.
* * *
I walk along a sandy shore.
The low silvery sun shimmers
liquid metal upon the sea.
Sitting alone,
Legs stretched in front,
A young woman with both hands
Kneeding the sand before her
In slow rhythmic motion,
Forward, then back,
Forward, back.
Her long jeans
Wet with the tide,
Brown hair disheveled.
A white tee with laces
Revealing her bare arms,
Pushing and pulling.
Forward, back.
The surfers
Bikini bodies,
Joggers pass by,
As do I,
In mute recognition
Of one driven to the edge
Of some precipice.
Why? Or does it matter
For us who see our reflection
Pushing forward, pulling back,
Forward, back.
As she raises her soft sullen eyes
To meet your iron sea.
This for your trickery!
* * *
No.
I reject your game.
No more am I taken
By your endless ruse.
“Poor me”
Drowned long ago
Beneath the tin surface
Of your steely sea.
What is left is but
A resolute rhythmic hammer,
The will I have stolen
From the depths of Thee.