The Wave I

Some day soon
my wave will move
and build
toward that far gold shore
from this deep water
turning green and still.
It will move and build
in a rising curve and crest - and hang -
for a space of breath outblown - then
curl-in to form a perfect
cylinder of emerald
and down it will
crash the beach head-on in rush and foam,
thin-out to a frilling skim,
and darken the sand
before it begins
an irresistible retraction, drawn
to merge afresh with the
sombre mass behind it
that pushes the wave in and on
to score its brief, dark outline
of contour on the strand.
My wave will etch
its watermark on land -
consoled in its surrender
to insistent tidal force
and submergence
in its own verdant depths distilled
with light.

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