Dry Grass at the Beach, a poem by Phil Cline

Dry Grass at the Beach, a poem by Phil Cline

Dry Grass at the Beach


Dry grass at the beach house

Beneath rainless clouds,

Thirsting next to eternal acres of sea,

The drought remains, piteous, aloof.


The fog’s damp mist wet insufficient

To reach down, nourish, resurrect

Dead roots and parched strands

Of sun burned grass.


The retired captain peered outward

At an ocean of wavering memories.

He watched their white caps peak, glance, roll under,

Returning to their watery depths forever.


Gone now, those Wet years of Plenty,

A Frolic of time expended freely,

The Loud discordant Songs,

The Drinks, The Dances, The One Regret.


The Captain cupped his callused hands,

Against the warm wind, lit his cigarette,

Deeply inhaled, swallowed really,

The cancer didn’t matter now anyway.


He dropped the smoldering match

On the dry grass.

And ground the final ember to death

Under his boot.


He resolved

There would be no more tears.

She was right not to wait for the rain.

It won’t return.

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