Sitting on the rocks at Brandon,
mixed among them
in my stone-gray jacket,
my eyes turned to the waves
coming in with the tide
to beat on the rocks,
while my body settled.

I watched that earthy rock
under the assault of the sea.
The tide would sneak
its way in, and then as it
rode over the former
shore it would hop
up out of the green
and into the air as white,
splashing the rocks.

And to my eye the rocks
seemed not to budge, but
I well knew the sea's attack
was slow, the wounds
too minute for me to view.

I sat unmoving on the rocks,
thirsting for them to fight back,
to hurl themselves against the sea,
but they were reluctant to react,
always defensive, simply as reflex,
never chancing a daring move.

Each rock only sat there, listlessly
battered by the tide, gradually losing
its surface, the sea always pushing
the rock further and further
towards its center,

but so slowly it forgets
it has a center at all,
and knows itself only
as thick exterior,
no action but reaction.

Still, I know how the rock yearns
to be flowing like the sea—
for the sea to shave
its rough outside down,
never to find an essence,
to be refined until 
its smallest surface
pours into the sea.