This poem began as a short story written as a class assignment. I was a junior in high school, so the comprehensive editing that I've put it through over the years has been necessary. I wouldn't say that it reflected an immature tone of voice, but my writing style has changed drastically over the last decade and the story is one of my favorites. As I am presenting it here, it has been revised once more.
The Intruder on the Beach
I have traversed this beach for what seems eons; yet,
time upon time, what I seek always eludes me.
I seek it in the sound of the crashing waves, the smell
of the salt air, the feel of the chill wind—
which whips against my weathered face.
I walk farther from the water’s edge. eyes scanning
the distant horizon, searching an elusive peace of mind
in the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green surface of the ocean,
I walk. walking on sand that bares much witness
to my habitual walks, and those of others, as evidenced
in the footprints that crater nigh the entire surface of the sand.
a testimony of the pain of the world, perhaps?
a while longer, my steady gait has gained me silent ground.
the crashing waves and the seagulls and such that fly by
my only companions. then, I hear them, moments before I see them.
a young couple. I slow my already slow pace and lethargically
move along. so far I am unnoticed and…
suddenly, the girl turns her head sharply.
she is blessed with classic beauty. large eyes, deeper in color
than the darkest night—they sit above a small nose and bow
shaped mouth, the lower lip fuller
(sensual, soft, kissable).
about her oval face, thick mahogany strands of hair sway,
dancing in the salt air. and shapely curves define her
as woman and not girl.
she reminds me of my Heather. not in likeness of feature,
but in youth. she, this woman not girl, radiant picture of life
that she is... a life my Heather did not have the chance to live...
her youth, this woman not girl, also reminds me
of my advancing years. of how old I have grown
in the years since sweet wife’s death.
not that I need reminders.
I see my age as my hand moves my cane before me,
a third appendage which firms my limping stride,
a hand covered in wrinkled and spotted skin.
and too, I know the wind throws grayed hair,
mostly hidden beneath a black top hat, across my face.
I attend the woman not girl with an immovable gaze
as I drift inexorably closer, drawn to her
by the force of memory she evokes in me.
she attends me as well, and at her inattention
her young man jerkily throws up his hands,
joining in an intentional harmony with the rise
in pitch of his voice.
the woman not girl flinches, but does not take
her dark eyed gaze, which begins to show anger,
off my approaching form.
dear, sweet bliss, how she reminds me of Heather!
why? why, on this day come here?
a rhetorical question, if ever there was one for myself.
this is where I proposed to Heather, where we spoke
our vows, where...
...she lost her life—this day thirty years past.
but why, why on this day did this woman not girl,
with her midnight eyes, with her angry lover,
why come here!
I am mere feet from the couple now
and pass them by with a tip of my hat, a halfheartedly
spoken, “Sorry to intrude.”
I turn slightly as I journey on and have my first look
at the young man. he is handsome, tall,
and at an age I shall never again be.
as a flash of jealousy courses through my broken heart,
I turn and look out over the ocean.
cruel, wretched thing.
I wish that I had sweet wife back.
I sigh and look back at the young couple (they are embracing now,
the heat and anger gone, upon the young man’s face,
a kind of wondrous peace, such unguarded emotion) hoping
that they shall love, be permitted to love...
until their dying days.
I look away, only to turn back moments later.
reason dawns.
I have become a man forgotten of splendor.
no matter that I turned from it, splendor still dwells here...
in the sound of the crashing waves, the smell of the salt air,
the feel of the chill wind, the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green
surface of the ocean, in the sand that bares much witness
to my habitual walks and those of others, as evidenced
by the footprints that crater nigh the entire surface of the sand.
Heather’s image firmly fixed in my mind, I turn away
from the couple a last time and walk into the water.
~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry July 30, 2009
Image: Unknown
The Intruder on the Beach
I have traversed this beach for what seems eons; yet,
time upon time, what I seek always eludes me.
I seek it in the sound of the crashing waves, the smell
of the salt air, the feel of the chill wind—
which whips against my weathered face.
I walk farther from the water’s edge. eyes scanning
the distant horizon, searching an elusive peace of mind
in the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green surface of the ocean,
I walk. walking on sand that bares much witness
to my habitual walks, and those of others, as evidenced
in the footprints that crater nigh the entire surface of the sand.
a testimony of the pain of the world, perhaps?
a while longer, my steady gait has gained me silent ground.
the crashing waves and the seagulls and such that fly by
my only companions. then, I hear them, moments before I see them.
a young couple. I slow my already slow pace and lethargically
move along. so far I am unnoticed and…
suddenly, the girl turns her head sharply.
she is blessed with classic beauty. large eyes, deeper in color
than the darkest night—they sit above a small nose and bow
shaped mouth, the lower lip fuller
(sensual, soft, kissable).
about her oval face, thick mahogany strands of hair sway,
dancing in the salt air. and shapely curves define her
as woman and not girl.
she reminds me of my Heather. not in likeness of feature,
but in youth. she, this woman not girl, radiant picture of life
that she is... a life my Heather did not have the chance to live...
her youth, this woman not girl, also reminds me
of my advancing years. of how old I have grown
in the years since sweet wife’s death.
not that I need reminders.
I see my age as my hand moves my cane before me,
a third appendage which firms my limping stride,
a hand covered in wrinkled and spotted skin.
and too, I know the wind throws grayed hair,
mostly hidden beneath a black top hat, across my face.
I attend the woman not girl with an immovable gaze
as I drift inexorably closer, drawn to her
by the force of memory she evokes in me.
she attends me as well, and at her inattention
her young man jerkily throws up his hands,
joining in an intentional harmony with the rise
in pitch of his voice.
the woman not girl flinches, but does not take
her dark eyed gaze, which begins to show anger,
off my approaching form.
dear, sweet bliss, how she reminds me of Heather!
why? why, on this day come here?
a rhetorical question, if ever there was one for myself.
this is where I proposed to Heather, where we spoke
our vows, where...
...she lost her life—this day thirty years past.
but why, why on this day did this woman not girl,
with her midnight eyes, with her angry lover,
why come here!
I am mere feet from the couple now
and pass them by with a tip of my hat, a halfheartedly
spoken, “Sorry to intrude.”
I turn slightly as I journey on and have my first look
at the young man. he is handsome, tall,
and at an age I shall never again be.
as a flash of jealousy courses through my broken heart,
I turn and look out over the ocean.
cruel, wretched thing.
I wish that I had sweet wife back.
I sigh and look back at the young couple (they are embracing now,
the heat and anger gone, upon the young man’s face,
a kind of wondrous peace, such unguarded emotion) hoping
that they shall love, be permitted to love...
until their dying days.
I look away, only to turn back moments later.
reason dawns.
I have become a man forgotten of splendor.
no matter that I turned from it, splendor still dwells here...
in the sound of the crashing waves, the smell of the salt air,
the feel of the chill wind, the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green
surface of the ocean, in the sand that bares much witness
to my habitual walks and those of others, as evidenced
by the footprints that crater nigh the entire surface of the sand.
Heather’s image firmly fixed in my mind, I turn away
from the couple a last time and walk into the water.
~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry July 30, 2009
Image: Unknown
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