Waiting by the seashore

Foamy fingers of brine
stroke the smooth cheeked pebbles,
and gurgle with laughter
as they retreat to sea.
White capped waves gambol,
amongst the rocks that relax
in their cool caress.

Then, whispers soft the gibbous moon,
and draws in her net of silver strands;
the waves recede reluctantly,
with one last kiss to the wet sands.

Alone stand the rocks
once more bereft of companionship,
with naught but memories
as protection ‘gainst the jeering sun.

Do they realize
the waves will return anon,
and again the winds shall scatter
laughter o’er the sandy shores.
Cracks the sun’s rays caused
to ache whene’er they're dry,
by soothing touch and soft murmurs
will heal, leaving naught to the eye.

Do they resolve, or do they sit resigned?
And can they move at all?
Am I a rock? Was he a wave?
Will no one tell me?