delicately painted with waves of craving
that crash before we reach the shore,
with sand warm against my bare back,
Your face shielding my gaze from the glaring sun,
a showcase of your freckled skin,
traced with raised edges
where I dug my nails in.
Sunday’s sin can be forgiven
when it was neither seen nor heard
but spoken in tongues.
You want to know,
you want me to teach you
the ways of my God
like how this beach becomes one with the sea,
but my God doesn’t obey the prayers
formed between a man’s clasped hands,
first he must dare to get his feet wet.
The tide continues its motion
lapping the broken shores in a peaceful sigh of relief
after holding its breath for so long.
You recall the beach by your childhood home
spending hours pondering what treasures lay
on other shores
how desperately you wanted to believe
in a world away from those bricks and walls
which built that house and then trapped you inside it.
You recall the beaches in foreign countries
you had the honour of gracing.
How you remembered that first beach
and realised you had made it.
You are still making it.
No matter where you are in the world
the water always finds its way to you.
It endures the earth’s currents
to reach the ground your feet are stood upon.
It’s about the long fight.
And if the ocean can find a way to touch you
and at every opportunity longs to dip your feet in its brilliance
you can get out of bed and exist today.