Beach Village

for R.

I like to think the waves are village-women
holding the line to shore, and giving way,
our mothers, who have borne the race’s children,
and held grand sway
up to the shimmering crash, the rich surrender,
the brilliant spray.

I like to think the birds are village-children
released and springing, soaring in the blue,
scatter of wave-skim, men and women of lightness,
then into view
appearing tall, alerted to a journey
their parents knew.

I like to think the clouds are village-fathers
looming gentle, not too far away,
dissolving and returning, ever watchful,
now on their way
sun-billowing on. A wing of wind and water,
one village-day.