July 11, 2012


On the beach
the air is cold,
fog rolling in.
I walk the strand
against the wind,
hear the departed
call again.
With the tide
they roll in strong,
then go at end of day,
they call to me
on their way out,
by the opening
of the bay.
They ride the wind,
follow me,
know when
I lay alone.
Their pull is deep,
and in my sleep
wonder when
I will be coming home.