San Clemente

There is a strand of beach that runs along the south face of Southern California on which I ran as a child,
wind in my long blonde hair,
wet salt spray on my face.
I was two.
I was ten.
I was sixteen.
I was twenty.
Everything was possible.

Sure footed I ran
across dense, corse, sand
my feet leaving permanent imprints, I thought
until, never looking back,
the next wave washed them away.

Closer to the water's edge,
danger lurked.
A chorus of black, glistening, rocks,
sang their song
as the water retreated
and roared with its return.

The rhythm of my childhood.

I danced with my father on the shifting sand
as secure as the castles he built
until, never looking back,
the next wave washed them away.

Relentless surf.
No mote could protect them
or me.

The tides would have their way.