Swaying, groaning, rising, dying – still.
Each wave slides gracefully
along the sand grown soft from
time and the kneading surf
a hundred billion grains lie
side by side as brothers, even
those hewn from strange rocks.
Sol looms large, and its foil Luna is
only a few hours away, off the edge of the Earth –
changes far too subtle to see, dwarfed
by the wild palms
swaying, groaning, rising, dying
still.
Unspoken Politics 