Stinson Beach
Sheltered
we heard the rain
whispering over our heads
falling around us on the beach
where one gull watched
and pools were sleepy
with ripples of the low sea sway.
We lay curtained by rain and the silence
what it meant lost to us
in the scent of ourselves –
sliding together
and apart, we touched each other
motiveless
on that enclosed shore
content to remain
when the gull had left for a warmer bay,
to observe paint peeling
from the oarless derelict –
a boat with empty mast,
ill-fitted planks
that chafed and moaned together.
Not apparent until
afterward, in pools disturbed
to their shallow depth by wading feet,
the shell's concentric tracery –
grit and substance of things
grown in a pearl light
wearing down to gray.
© 1990 by Beth Stevens
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