nichepoetryandprose

Each summer we try to include a visit to the seashore in our vacation plans.  This year we explored the coast of Maine and discovered Acadia National Park.  Last year, we followed the South Shore of Nova Scotia, stopping at its many public beaches and byways.

The seashore is a magical place.  One of the beaches we visited in 2010 was Crescent Beach, near Lunenburg.  At the far end of the two kilometre long beach was an outcrop of calcareous rock.  This rock had been eroded and pitted by wave action over the millennia.  At one spot, the erosion had worn a small hole in the rock, just big enough to put my finger through.  For that moment, I was wearing the whole earth as a ring on my finger!!

wearing the world on my finger!

The other magical aspect of the seashore is its changeability.  In 2009, we followed the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia and made our second visit to Tor Bay, near Larry’s River.  When you stand on the beach at Tor Bay, the energy of the ocean and the drama of the wave action occupies all of your senses, all of ‘self’.  The drama had also changed the beachscape significantly between our two visits, shortening its depth and exposing rocks I had not seen on our first visit.

It was as though we were not in the same place at all, but remembering a fable about a beach we had once known.  No matter how hard we tried, we could never return to the same beach we had visited before.

fable

~

1.

~

stone

eroded

~

the fragments

layered by water

forged by fire

thrust and folded

into

stone

~

2.

~

this morning

the moon is real

sculpted in wavefoam

smooth as a pebble

random in the clatter

~

real

not a fable of moon

~

the rocks are folded

half-buried in sand

~

on the shore

an igneous man

in his lap a puddle of water

salt crystals

and stars

~

a quartz river

seams his forehead

~

real

not a fable of river

~

3.

~

I place quartz stones

too heavy for the gulls

to gather

~

these stones will shine

in darkness

a long line leading home

~

4.

~

I choose small stones

with smooth and shine

~

stones like eggshell

or potatoes pushed

into ground

~

pearl buttons

turned by a clumsy hand

rice pelting the window

lanterns shining in the dark

~

5.

~

at midnight

I run to the shore

the white pebbles

gather me to the moonlight

a dotted line

on the asphalt road

~

6.

~

the pebbles do not

wait for me

they fade

and scatter

roll over and over

lost

among so many

common stones

~

the wave edge

unravels behind me

~

7.

~

the path home is a fable

not real

~

in my lap is a pool

salt water

and stars

~

© Jane Tims  1998

Crescent Beach near Lunenburg, Nova Scotia