Tuesday, October 10, 2006

80-Year-Old Motorist Drives Into Sand Heap

Poetry Thursday's idea this week: Use something from the news.

The news story is here. Why on earth would somebody do that?

Yes, I knew the road was closed:
the yellow signs, machines like sleeping dinosaurs—
I’m not an idiot, you know.
Why did I keep on going? Well, because...
the fact is, I have always dreamed of sand.

I’ve dreamed of palm fronds rustling over coral coves.
I’ve dreamed of Friday’s footprint on a lonesome shore.
I’ve dreamed of ridges edged with camel shadows in the dawn.
I’ve dreamed of castles standing brave and doomed against the tide.

Sand, a thing to leave your footprints in,
knowing that they’ll be erased by wind...
at my age, one accepts that transience.
The flesh grows less obedient by the day,
and I find my affinities
with sand.

In fact, no explanation can suffice.
I’ve wrecked my car, endangered self and wife
and made myself a laughingstock world-wide.
And yet, it was worthwhile to be for one mad moment
the wind, the stars, the sea, a single wave
that crashed on sand.

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