a war as old as water

the great blueness begins to rise
taking a deep breath
preparing to throw itself at the Sand
as the swell becomes more pronounced
the wave-top begins moving faster than the bottom
transforming what appeared as a blue hill
into a fluidly translucent blue-green wall

a hairy clump of kelp
drawn upward as the wave begins to crest
appears to be suspended in space
as the frozen moment thaws
the ball of tangled strands is freed
looking for all the world
like the head of some Atlantean Medusa
whose gaze turns to stone not flesh, but time

the blue-greeness tumbles
into foamy white chaos
while roaring its disapproval
with a voice that finally fades into a pleading hiss
which calls for the water to retreat
so it slips back upon itself
leaving the Sand smooth, and
(if the bits of glass and bottlecaps are ignored)
pristine

the shore appears renewed
by the joyous rushing up
and the burdened slipping away
heavy with footprints and sandcastles
that no longer solely mark a person's presence or passage
chased as if they were pieces-of-eight
and not the worthless spoils
of a war as old as water

the succession of waves
becomes a parade of invading armies
that are sacrificed to the foamy whiteness
which is all that remains
of the Sea's rage
at losing yet another skirmish
in an endless battle
waged by water
against the boundaries imposed by the shore

it is the Sand
that stuff whose grainy passivity
serves to provide an acceptable illusion
that dares the Sea to dump its anger
that silently conceals reality
while covering up forever
the true nature of the Sea and its containment
and smothering all that is left of the world
until finally there are no distractions

there is just the Sea
and there is only the Sand
and of course, a war as old as water

9-20-92
mag

(i am the Sand)

(C)1993 charles altvater