The Beachcomber
M
Mark Heathcote
0
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This sea waxes and wanes like a candle by moonlight
if only I could stay here a little bit longer
and remain to find work, become a playwright
who has beach combed the sandbars like a poet author?
Gems to scarify later polish into jasper
or amethyst or amber or just some petrified wood,
if only I could stay here a little-bit-longer
and watch a small pod of Killer whales free, not immured.
Locked in a glass tank with gleeful little sticky hands
with soda cans and banging for personal attention.
If only I could leave those cities taxing demands,
and bury my head in some white-hot exotic sands
I'd write poems about my life, 'incomprehension.'
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