Sentinels

Standing guard,
dunes of sand innocently
permit the currents of the Atlantic to
make their inescapable journey inland;
antennae-like sea oats atop the mounds
gently sway to and fro in a minuet
choreographed mysteriously
by the breeze;

early Easter north winds swirl along the
shoreline like flat rocks skipping across a
country pond’s stilled surface.
Pounding against the shore, emerald waves
darkened by the season wear white crowns

their continual onslaught mesmerizes
their would be captors nearby;
winged soldiers whose respite
at the water’s edge is short lived,
search for nourishment
while tiny creatures helplessly burrow beneath the bubbling sand.
Bleached conchs, shark’s eyes, lion’s paw, and elephant tusks
are strewn recklessly like abandoned villages
forests of driftwood, tar and barnacled encrusted treasures
are fragile remnants seemingly of another world,
untouched and unspoiled by our ancestors who
once spread their seeds along these shores.
Gliding just above the sand’s surface, billowing
domes of foam, pierced and dirtied by sand bullets
scud like clouds away from their watery creatures;
hoards of domes propelled by gusts of wind
hover like invading monsters, leaving
traces of white web like encasements before
gradually dissolving into the sand just before these
sand dune sentinels who once again stand ready,
turning back nature’s wintery probe;
a timeless battle
waged independently, casts
eroding memories on our souls.
1983