An old man sits beside the sea.
He does not dream like you and me.
He looks back to days gone by.
Look close, a tear slips from his eye.
He wonders why, he wonders how,
He’s become so discontent with now.
As the swells roll to his feet,
He knows his life seems incomplete.
There was a girl so long ago,
Who touched his heart – his life she stole.
He thought she was a short-lived treat;
Now he sees – she made life sweet.
There were friends who’d asked – not much.
He craved one now, “his soul” to touch.
A briny breeze tossed his hair
As he thought, “It’s now I care.”
The breeze quite soon a gale became.
He fought for higher ground.
His steps were slow. The sea took charge –
A wave caught him – hell-bound!
As senses dulled and fear gripped strong,
There came a true reprieve.
Gentle arms surrounded him!
Words whispered. Dare he believe?
Her form was lithe, her voice a salve.
He was taken to moss covered rock.
While strangely warm he listened, intent.
In her story he took great stock.
She spoke of one whose life was bleak,
Who foresaw naught but a bitter end.
Himself he saw, as each word burned,
Took hold and to his heart did wend.
She spoke of how he’d wasted life
And did not savour every treasure,
Of forsaking all that matters most,
Of not seeing what brought true pleasure.
The gift of love in a child’s eyes,
Asking nothing in return,
The fulfillment of a job well done,
A delight that all should earn.
To relish camaraderie
And nurture every reach,
Or watch a spider spin her web,
Or waves play upon a beach.
To revel in sunset’s glory,
Or wish upon a star,
Or share fireside with a loved one,
Or admire beauty from afar.
To capture each moment in the now,
Yet always one’s future road make.
To give of one’s self and then give more,
Only then will one’s heart not break!
As ocean’s spray misted them
And sea bird dove for food,
A setting sun bathed them in gold;
He was bequeathed a perfect mood.
“Begin anew!” were her final words
As she dove into the sea.
He turned to see a parchment roll
Lying at the foot of a tree.
Her words thereon were written well
And he saw, while spirit did mend,
That joy lives strong with journey’s unfolding,
And is but brief at journey’s end.
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