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Vista
by Greg Gregory

By day, the kelp sways below the cliffs,
hypnotizes like sirens in the moving blue water.
The waves never stop moving to and fro, to and fro.

The kelp holds fast to its submerged anchors.
Its fronds float like brown feathers.
They pound up onto the rocks. They rarely let go.

Foam churns. Cormorants dive under the surface.
then pop up like small black dots and look around,
surprised at where they find themselves after surfacing.

Voice is the lightest thing to carry along the cliff path,
A tongue in the sea air, a privileged perspective
for an instant, to seem like one who never dies.

A rock falls from the cliff into the waves below.
I remember the old Beatle's lyric, "Here comes the sun".
The water glistens to the horizon from the eroding cliffs.

The sky dances over sea, cliffs. The sky dances for itself.
A fool walks one more day and leads a lucky life.
I must send postcards to others who are not here.

The cormorants dive. The kelp hangs on in the blue sea.
The sea sings its song. It has since I first saw it as a child
from my first walk on this cliff trail.

I looked down, watching the waves come in to the rocks
and wondered about mermaids, who, after their life
of a thousand years, finally turned into sea foam.



 

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