Filling The Cup

 
I allowed the beaches to cup bare feet,
embedded, soaked, rested into it--
 
explored tunnels and deep ocean pathways,
swam through the belly,
crags of grey rock.
 
I ensured they became visual reminders
of that place, saying yes, years on.
 
There was a bruise of Marian blue
splattered upon the sky -
as if a sky painter had added  
too much Prussian, failed to blend  
tonal highs in an understated glory,
or simply chose not to mix the hue of ovarian white.
It was beautiful regardless.
 
The sea satisfied my mind and body,  
both had been dried by the Sun,  
further dehydrated due to lack of light Summer rain.
 
This body howls for it these days,
seeks it, stands, hands out,  
gratitude pronounced.
 
In that sandmouth  
of fallen, shallow rock,
I took photos of books,  
imprints.
 
It was a simple Thursday memory  
of joy, of choices,
each more valued at thirty one.
 
I smoked a cigarette too  
with grief I'd been unwinding,
sat and watched wave upon wave
wrap'round wave upon wave
and imagined that that peace,
being somewhere I want to be,
of mattering to myself,
knowing what I need and honouring it -
that could become the canvas of my life.