A Vanishing at the Shore

                                                          None can tell why the moving towards this mastery                                                           Is like a rainbow, on a blessed wing -                                                           But all can say the vanishing.                                                                      Mark Steven Scheffer                                                                             from 'After Stevens'                                      One must leave to return.                                        When I recall your first rainbow ride,                                        The way the tide tugged at your feet,                                        Water and sand work against instinct,                                        That “Get out now,” that visceral scream –                                           How you let go, gave in to the wave,                                           Let the tide take you out to see.                                        And when an angle had been subtended,                                        And sky of bland blue unraveled its knot,                                        There against the dark clouds you arched                                        Your back and stood in defiance of the storm.                                           No more than a long Sunday cast from shore - There!                                           And you had disappeared into the froth and foam.                                        Come and go. Here and gone. Wave after wave                                        Crashed ashore and yet not one was yours.                                        Though all were yours. And stood we there                                        Waiting on the waves, calling your name.                                           How long you were gone we shall never know.                                           Long and gone are but tempos, nuance.                                       The ebb and flow of water over rock, and light;                                       The pregnant rainbow, now but a clever caption,                                        Or a boat bobbing seven leagues from home.                                       Once a lad with a box of eight crayons. Then -                                           Footprints in the sand.                                           And we are running -