Wednesday, December 14, 2016

The Beach

The Beach

Here in the dry constellations,
Orion winters in the blue west, the
Drinking Gourd spills silver on the void, and
the Seven Sisters crowd together, 
quilting the smothering night.
I miss the beach.

I miss the salt, I miss the sweet
curled wave that rolled the wind
in a gestured wand
of air and water,
joining two lurching things
ungainly in their solitary progress,
shelled and crabbed in solitude
into one smooth moving beast
hip to hip, stride for stride
tandemed untarnished

because you chose to throw
your arm around my neck
and let us spin

in the eddy, as the tide
ran out, till we were dizzy

and all the slipping stars
cleared the boards and moved
their heavy banquet
to our eyes.

~December 2016

Images: The Enchanted Beach with Three Fluid Graces, 1950 Salvidor Dali, Detail. Fair use
Elenita At The Beach, Asturia, 1903, by Joaquin Sorolla Public domain


  1. What a gorgeous poem this is. I especially like the stanza with the joining of the two lurching things.

  2. All the moment, there captured. Well composed escape

  3. I miss the salt, I miss the sweet
    curled wave that rolled the wind

    There is the reassurance of peaceful gestures from the sea when one takes a walk along the beach. One feels it somehow!


  4. ahh. I'm ashamed, I live right here, and rarely let the sand touch my toes anymore. Fool am I (as though that were in question.)

    you've caught the wave, as it were, perfectly, and given us a balm. thank you ~

  5. I rarely miss the beach... mostly because I'm mildly allergic to sunlight and salt water does strange things to my eyeballs. But, oh! The way you describe it, the feelings your words roll into being... that makes me miss the sand, the almond trees, the smell of salt that's full of life and tales.

  6. Oh my, Hedge. This is beautiful! You have no idea how much I love knowing that, when you post, I really have something to look forward to reading, and to savor. This one is unexpectedly tender, and your imagery conveys two imperfect beings who are more perfect when together. Wonderful.

  7. I join Fireblossom in amenning this poem's perfection, Hedge. I miss this beach too, although I'm only an hour's drive from it: far enough away to place it somewhere between memory and dream: centrally the work (the tide?) of poems. Behind the wall of gods placed there to protect something we lost, the tenderness, the shared beach, the freedom and surrender of it. This is both a vatic and love poem, a nature and a tide poem. All the imprerfections perfectly, gloriously rendered. All of it in one. Share it for Tuesday Platform, Hedge, it demands more readers. (And sorry for coming by late).


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats

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