Emerging from offices, schools and
condos into blue-skied, sun-kissed
Oceanside, the walkers come.
The jetting, sweating set,
vest topped, lycra cropped;
sports shorts in assorted
shades of the fashion scene,
grey, jade, aubergine,
raspberry and blueberry pie.
And the legs; brown, oiled legs,
smooth shaved, polished
to a slick sheen of curved
calves down to the neat
white absorbent socks;
shocks on the hard, concrete
sea wall above the high tide
of the Pacific Oceanside keeping
sea and old age at bay.
Then the arms; the scissor cross
or the military marching style,
high-bunched chicken wings,
loose goose flappers, the odd
twitchers, the one-elbow-hook
of the old grizzled guy with
the wavering, weaving tread
of a marathon runner on
his last peg-legs.
The gulls, the cormorants
and I watch with mixed
amusement, envy, awe –
man aping bird – absurd.
Sea birds preen feathers,
blink an indifferent eye;
sandpipers run with elegant
ease on shoe-less, sure feet
over the sands as the sea retreats.
Tonight the sea will wash away
every claw and foot print,
every track and trace of the
walkers, leaving the morning shore
wave-washed for a gentle
constitutional, or a stop-watched trot.
The ebb and flow of the walkers,
wave upon wave, as constant as
the perpetual ocean tide.