Monday, August 1, 2016


The waves still break themselves on the south point
The same way as they did back then and there,
When and where skies were blue like the lagoon
And sounds of pounding surf filled warm nights’ air.
The canvas tents and caravans are gone,
Except those that stay a night then move on;
Grass no longer yellows under hessians,
Flash cars betray owners’ slick professions.
But there's something in the roll of the sea
That bids me come and walk these sands again;
Something in the whipbirds' sharp cracking glee
That speaks of boys before we became men.

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