At mid ebb I was sitting at the side of
a tidal creek along the edge of the marsh
that cushions Essex Bay like a large soft pillow
placed on a hard granite bed.
The stream was long and snaked off into the distance
reflecting both the border marsh grass and the
thin clouds far overhead. The stones in the water
were like signposts showing the way to the sea.
What a lovely scene, I thought, how gentle and sublime.
This is the way to experience life; immersed in beauty,
a vision to hold onto – a flashback of the
best there is – a remembrance of joyful days.
Three hours later, the stream was gone, the rock filled
bed was mud, no more a mirror of sky and grass .
And the rocks, alone and exposed, spoke only of what had been;
my river of peace and beauty now empty.
This must be a magician’s trick, an illusion that
appears and enthralls only to disappear
at the pass of a wand or the murmuring
of some secret and ancient incantation.
But I am the sorcerer. I am the illusionist
who attaches to objects and scenes the word
sublime. I conjure up the images to
be remembered; if not for me, beauty would not be.
An encore, originally posted February 12, 2012.