We walked the farthest we could go
from cars and houses and factories
and grey clouds and rising smoke
to a field, boxed in bush, laid a perfect green.
In our new habit, a fresh routine, we sat
huddled in a copse, breathed in with our eyes closed
this quiet place of untouched, uncaged air
of an unbroken world, untapped and remote,
with not a soul to see for miles and miles.
But I could still hear it, working at the crooks
and cracks of my mind: the harsh waves,
their foam and welter against the rock,
fierce at the build thousands of years old.
It takes a while, I know, but it’s eroding away,
carrying grain and granule in each relentless wave.