At the Edge
footprints masked on mottled beach,
foot-warmth from late sun on sand,
tang of salt and withered seaweed
on the breeze.
Why that restive impulse
to level with my hands
rippled sands to glass?
Trace the shore,
prudent not to let the gentle swash
tempt my feet from sandpiper paths.
Past the crescent’s tip more light-spots
Among myriad stars,
a makeshift craft might
strike through breakers, whitecaps,
over waves reworked from ancient threads,
to untouched deeps.