Their Timeless Might

The Oregon coast of which I boast

has vista views so vast, I cannot grasp

the miles of waves, the strips of white,

their foamy fate, their timeless might.
The barren sweeping throbbing waste,

slow motion ripples, anti-haste.

And though I cannot be here when

those motions send their undulations

through the glare, purring forth in

rarified air ten, a hundred thousand

years from now, still I know

how they will look and sound and feel

if eyes and ears and nerves remain.

And so I see the future in this thing

of which I boast, this craggy, cliffy,

windy, sunny, this eternal Oregon coast.

Standing on a Sandy Cliff

Standing on a sandy cliff my face against the wind lines of white across the blue roaring in the din. Twilight promise of the night the boldest stars begin to light the swells whose nighttime glow beckons moonlight kin. Drawn by whispers of the breeze the ocean calls from deep within Alas, I must now turn away and say good-bye again.