Ebb tide

First I carefully let go

just as far as I can reach

the flotsam brought in on the flow: time to mark the beach.

Now I start to trickle back

over wet ground, under sky,

from marsh just covered in the slack: time to let it dry.

Now I cut new rivulets

to drain the chains of pools that lace the spreading sands and soft mudflats: time to

gather pace.

Now I rush on down the creek

bearing loose things left afloat.

Behind each moored boat runs a wake: time to gush full spate.

Now my headlong dash abates—where I once was, the waders team, rich foraging is

in their sights—time for a gentler stream.

Now I feel the flood’s return

push against my trickle home,

to creep back in when I have gone.  It’s time: my end has come.