Ocean Trip

I stand on the wet, firm sand
And watch John climb that cliff
Of slippery shale and rotten rock.
         John registered as a C.O. yesterday.

The tide is coming in,
The breakers roar,
The wet sand undercuts a bit.
         John doesn't like the war.

It starts easy on the shale,
But soon grows steep
With few handholds.
         He must make his case on conscience.

A few projecting rocks
Are all the holds there are;
They crumble in his hands.
         He must convince the board with what he knows.

He inches upward,
Rocks slithering, tumbling down.
I could not go so far.
         He has the wrong religion.

The ledge dissolves beneath his feet ---
He's stuck.
He can't go further.
         He can't use God for aid.

He turns his head and asks, "Which way?"
I cannot urge him on
To seek the goal I cannot reach.
         Most of us have feet of clay.

Coming down is even harder;
Rocks flying, coat preceding...
At last he's safe
         Down here with me.

The tide is higher, the wind is up,
The scud is beautiful
Blowing and rolling across the beach.
         The sand is not so firm today.



© Edison S. Fisk, 2009. All rights reserved.