Supper on the Beach
The flickering shadows of many myths
still dance, like candle flames, along the inner walls of sea caves.
For there, by the light of dying beachfires,
where men and women of this country have come in the evening since the discoverers,
the darkness booms
from the crash of unseen waves against the ends of subterranean passageways.
Babies cry
and lovers draw together, half in fun, half in unexplainable fear.
And old people poke the fire and look about,
as though they were looking for lost children.
The darkness booms,
the darkness whistles suddenly
when small tatters of wind are drawn between eroded fissures of the rock.
They tell of long lost treasure hidden there,
of guardian ghosts,
