A Poem a Day (608): Salt

 
Salt

We wait on the edge of Never,
eye of the storm breaking the curve.
 
Foam flicks, sprinkles our cheeks,
makes our skin bristle with tears of ice.
 
This roar is something I never can learn,
never echo, this strength in pure abandon,
 
the splicing against rock, the fierce surge,
this Never to be discovered in default.
 
Waves surge and curve, spin inside out,
while the rain plunges, unperturbed.
 
In its clear-blue wisdom it rages back,
casting doubt that our sun will ever shine.
 
Salt spits and I catch it, lick my lips, taste it.
In all my days it has never felt the same.
 
From all these places, a wealth of visitations,
it brings us news of the lost and found.
 
But we are all forgotten when the ebb subsides,
when this ardent flow resides on another shore.  
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 6, 2023