So what has become of
the seashells I used to collect on the shore?
do they build up, unfathomable, now my hand
is too busy carving a life unlooked for.

and what become of the arrogance of youth,
they who knew know bounds;
determined to grow as changing as the tides;
that their dance would be the one
to draw the moon ever closer.

now all to hear is gulls screaming incessant songs
as I learn of rhythms that are caught,
a trapped constant between tide and wane,
an age where there is
no magic in this magnificence.

We never dreamt that such small wonder
(of invisible breath that moves the clouds
subtle shifting of the seasons
sunrises and sunsets)
could be so finite.

Nor did we plan
for a life as fractious,
incidental;
shifting grains beneath
unsteady feet.