Beachcomber

I remember a time
thirty thousand years ago
when I felt something.
Now I wander these cliffs
eye the hanging air, coiling
grieve the ebbing tides,
for one more chance to rise.

I get pulled down to the bay
a beachcomber of sorts
pick at memories dressed in
plastic hats, kick off the weeds
arms aloft, stretching to the white lines
and beckon fresh winds to uncover
something brighter than this platinum sun.

If I think until it hurts
child - I see you here
red spade by your side
the digging of holes, the making of mountains
crabs in buckets, shells in pockets
your Dad already buried to the neck
you still whole

Do you remember when I left
did you shudder at all
or was it as gradual as stone forming sand
wearing yourself down to a millionth of who you were
to drift in air, no place to go.

Late now
I climb to where I can't see the ocean
sit with my back to the sound
the crying gulls emptying
yet the sea
pressed to my ears, formed from two shells, 
was closer than it's ever been.