The Sea Passes On
Betsy Holleman Burke
A man walks toward the water
drops his cane, crosses himself
before he enters the waves.
He hesitates, retreats, fears
what he observed on his slow
traverse of the rocky sand –
dried sea fans, fish skins, black fly
swarms, jelly fish, a dead crow.
Scared of a sting, running tide,
unsteady balance. Beyond
him surfers bound from bright kites,
straddle boards, wait for big swells.
Just yesterday, he surfed too.
He smiles. Wades ever deeper.