The sea slackens. Disturbs
long rumpled ribbons of kelp.
Sometimes the moon. Mountain pale.
All that light going out.
Then only the sea. Always arriving.
Wave after wave plunges a muted roar.
As a boy I'd think:
let there always be time for this.
Meaning more time for me.
Now I am here. Changed. Unchanged.
This is the sound of memory.
These the surfaces of remembrance.
Thoughts like stones skip and drown.
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