Purple Lady Poetry

The first wave is the furious one
That knocks you over
That destroys infrastructure.
All is washed away, landmarks vanished and bones revealed.

You see the vast expanse
And the distant line of the horizon.
All is gone, wind whipping your hair the birds cry,
Ululating their grief.

The second wave is the unexpected.
It brings the detritus. The little sharp stones
That cut and the slimy flotsam that clings
Reluctant to forget it belongs in the deep water.

The landscape is remade with familiar things
In unfamiliar spaces.
It remains to accept the new terrain
And, once more, enjoy the view.