A piece of wood, of ebony,
adrift in grey-cream ripples
that break, cascading constancy,
in cove nearby Penarth:
that driftwood moves, takes form upon
the pebbled beach as we
stand staring, watching, motionless
above on coastal path.
A seal comes flopping, grinding on
the stones, with arching back,
then thrusting back, dragged forward by
its flat non-gripping paws,
its flippers useless, numb-dead legs,
yet heaves he upward to
a cliff base splash of water, brief
his drink: he twists, explores,
discovers flotsam branch, a sea
deposit where he rolls upon
his back and greets the sun.
But is that not the mode of life…
from out the darkness of
our timelessness, or dimness of
our yesterday, so we emerge?
Before us lies the waiting task,
the looming struggle, over
the stones of doubt, the rocks of weakness,
the pebbles of our ignorance:
reluctant is the heart, and yet
we heave ourselves towards the aim…
refreshed upon our way,
completed is the task,
the struggle fades,
and we can rest,
relaxed to greet the sun!
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