It is too much
To capture in words today.
The roar and thunder of a million waves crashing,
The stillness of the air,
The way the mist hangs languidly in damp sheets by the cliffs
And the mountains at my back hug my shadow, hemming me in, close,
The way the white sand sifts between my toes as I walk along,
The miniature shells that are caught in rock crevasses, left behind when the tide went out,
The little black and seaweed-green fish, darting about in only inches of water,
The smell: fresh, slaty, briny,
The clearness of the wave as it lifts, curls and crashes, bearing the surfers in toward shore.
All of it is too perfect
All of it is too wonderful
To find the words
That will hold onto it when I cannot,
When I am far and the sea no longer my reality, the mountains and bush and red roads and baboon men, their radios crackling and paint guns popping…
When they are all far from me
And I from them
I will look at these words I have written
And try to taste, to see, to smell, to hold
Just once more.
I will close my eyes, then,
And dream of what I see now.