Hiroki was our friend.
We introduced him to the surf at Crescent Head
and watched him nearly drown in the addictive foam.
His inexperience of waves surprised us.
Later, on the beach, he retched and lay
and let the sun dry him to the bone,
his enthusiasm for wetness spent.
Fast forward some years and I’m looking
at an image on the internet.
Hiroki faces the camera beside the garden he tends.
No water here. No tides.
He stands undrowned in a sea of sand,
not missing the swell. Rake in hand,
he creates safe shallows around islands of rock.
Does he remember the assault of the sea
the concrete waves
the passion of drowning?
Landlocked, does he dream of an ocean
formed by ebb tides and the moon?
Having lost his innocence of breakers,
does he crave the violent ocean depths
where currents rule and lovers drown?
Cathy McCallum
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2 comments:
Have you read Tim Wintons' latest "Breath". Interesting motif re surfing linking your poem with his novel. When I read your poem Cathy, that's what sprang to mind.
Like a movie telling a story in vivid pictures, each frame clear, decisive and compelling. Now, that is what a poem must be and you Cathy, have captured this moment in time to perfection.
The jump to the future, time lapse in forward motion brings the two parts together with such ease; damn your creative prowess; too good for me I'm afraid.
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