At low ebb
Eavesdropping
On gentle tide
He listens to
Soft whispering stories
Wash on golden shore
Mirrored stone
Reflect
Tales
Scribed
In salty ink
And
Driftwood
Nomadic outcasts
Of the oceanic steppes
Refugees
Of the turning tide
Lie
Tired
Broken limbed
Weathered old
Beyond their rings
On the pebbled beach

He gathers
The epic volumes
As if it were a find
In an old rare book shop
Binding them
In rope that once
Fought tide and storm
To hold trains of lobster pots
Knots now like broken fingers
Encrusted in sand and barnacle
Renew their servitude

Covered
Immersed
In inky residue
The barefoot sage
Beachcomber of knowledge
His wisdom etched
On weathered parchment
Walks the salty road
A cormorant disappears
From the surface
And gannets plunge
From a height into the inky blackness
And death and life have no distinction
Only in the narcissists fear of extinction.