A poem about the songs of the surf (and nothing to do with Martha and the Muffins) |
Echo Beach Looking back at waves past, long washed up on the shore; it's funny how the tides last ... they leave you wanting more Echoes borne across the beach, 'midst lapping waves, they shift; ebbed in sync, rolled out of reach, a flowing temporal rift A raft of second chances, in hindsight, been and gone; half formed, sidelong glances, dances blinkered... off and on At times, unsure of patterns, in the undertow, the tides; running rings round saturn ... and round the other side as bodies pull on oceans, moons no longer there; there's gravity in notions, in thoughts that lay stripped bare Stripped bare in the whitewash, of memories that mark; the sandbanks with the backwash, where past thoughts lie, scored dark Washing back in sequence, coming back in waves; of glitter, grace and sequins, encoded strong, they're saved Rolling back in binary, unnoticed at the time; distilled in life's refinery, remembered are the signs Signs that now seem simple, signs that now read plain; with ships long gone, it stings still, the abscence that remains Memories... what could've been, roll hollow in the past; you never know, when waves wash in, which time will be their last to harbours dry that ring true, a dock for me alone; the times I should have seen through, the times I should have shown an interest in the market, through fabricated lies; the places where we park it, the faces truth denies Despite a world much brighter, to have them present, there; to make the load much lighter, to let them know... to dare To say how the world lights up, when their interest there is piqued; so vulnerable, so psyched up, a validation... seeked A hymn that sounds from friendly turf, sung just a pitch too true; when sirens sing within the surf, sometimes they sing for you Splinters of forgotton songs, we let them roll away; when the right wave rolls in strong, just take the swell and pray Wrestling with ties that bide, found reason in old rhymes; trying to rewrite the tides, the chapters of our times Asking less and yearning more, a madman's estuary; dreams cascade across the shore, and wash back out to sea Washed away, forsaken, lost, despite such best steps planned; guilty half steps taken, cost, vague footsteps in the sand Two left feet pushed forward, dared, to broke a heart's demand; In dance routines, learnt awkward, scared, afraid to take a hand In hindsight, plain, we see it all, some truths, they form in time; when waves roll in, scrolled digital, tides, phantom, pool in line Lining up, whilst waves wash in, ignored and thought routine; but what if maybe just within, those tides, there was a dream A dream of second chances borne, on currents wrought with doubt; a bottled message, coded, worn, looped, running, in and out As time goes by, such tides they slow, waves run, roll out of reach; with nothing more than echoes, lowly lapping on the beach Till in the end, they roll no more, unread, ignored, dismissed; little knowing what's in store, unsaid, unsold, remiss Looking back at waves long past, long washed up on the shore; it's funny how such tides, they last, ... and leave you wanting more |