Except for the Lone Wave

Like a heiress drawn
to her light-reflecting jewels,
Atlantic draws me to the mirror
of my oceanic small days
and the old seawall, so beloved by all.

But Atlantic is far out,
beach deserted in the mid-day sun
except for the lone wave of rubbish –
old car tyres, plastic bottles,
styrofoam cups –
rightly tossed back
by an ocean’s moodswings.

Undisturbed, not even by a seabird,
I stand and gaze into the tradewinds –
discovering that the sun
is the only eldorado, the only gold
whose rays will grace and sear our skins.

Like a tourist, I head back
to the sanctuary of my hotel room
to dwell on change and age
and our brooding planet
in the air-conditioned darkness.