The stones are worn with even, weary waves –
The ships are rusting by the rotting dock
That constitutes their cold, collective graves –
As weather runs down every object’s clock.
I look at you, your each new crease and gray –
The sand swirls, eddies up around your feet
With waves which wash so no sand, stone will stay
The way or where it is with every beat.
And yet our children play and chase the birds
That live with what the waves stir up. The seals
Are nursing pups. Sea grass will feed the herds
Of deer who make for cougar mothers’ meals.
Destruction is a part of nature, true –
But first things must be made, then made anew.