The Sea

A detour, I stopped and sat on

the shingle shore. Grey, save for

some glints shining through and wide

at low tide. I watched and smelled the churn of the sea.

My fingers found a smooth cold stone, 

I lanced it into the unknown,

and I imagined it was me.

I've coasted through the air and

I’ve been to the seabed, skimmed the superficial and

dropped, left only

mini-ripples on top of the blue.

Like the pebble I threw, I've been trimmed by the

eroding; turned nearly to sand

by the thrashing of the current. 

Currently, the pebble that is me is underneath

still. But it will - eventually - be delivered 

back to the beach by the ebb and the flow.

This I know.

As I left, the sun overcame the overcast

and made glimmering shimmies like

a last foray of desperate disco balls.

Before the next cloud falls over the sun, I thought,

One last glance. I thought:

I could be really living, instead of surviving.

I could dance home instead of driving,

and rather than stumbling, I could be diving.