Do not mourn my passing.

The years have had their way.

An old tide leaves the shore.

Clean, the sand to write on.

 

A new hand picks up the stick.

The ebbing sea leaves only

a line of froth, a shell or two

and clumps of kelp a-coil.

 

Seize that stick.

Write in the sand.

The words may not last beyond the flood

but until gone they speaks your name.

 

The island of my soul awaits the dawn.

Fingers of chill stab my skin;

erupting in flesh cobbles.

Squalls of shivers shake my bones.

 

Light up horizon, it is time for me.

I am ready to go.  Let me claim my bunk.

The sounds of seas my lullaby;

for I am ready for my rest.

 
 
David Garlick, Boat Harbor, May, 1996