children coming home

by Christopher "Beau" Bowman

Deserted by the masses
who come to worship the sun,

and use the mother sea,

yet never truly see her.

This is my favorite kind of beach day.

Cap pulled low.

A wool coat,
its collar turned up
against my cheeks.

I lean into the onshore breeze,

wet

and content.

A pipe in hand,

its sweet, pungent smoke
drifting warmly,
aimlessly,
around my face.

I dream the dreams
of every old sailor,

no longer at sea.

From the first forgotten seafarer
to the captain still,

I stand alone.

Insignificant.

Watching the endless sea
crash upon the shore.

Rain falling softly on the sand,

dancing
upon the surface
of the sea.

In peace,

I stand transfixed.

The smell of wet wool,
salt,
tobacco,
and seaweed
lingers around me.

I watch the sea.

Her children,

softly,

returning home