Wreck Beach

how strange it is to swim in a warm sea

to swallow water almost free of salt

as you dive, only to surface

and sight the snowbound peaks

beyond Vancouver, almost miraculous

beneath a pale half moon!

drink the ocean here and you’ll survive

to turn and face the beach

the kites handled expertly by old nudists

toddlers gyrating to djembe jazz

mimicking their mothers and fathers –

watermelon platters passed around

with a little weed, a little of something stronger –

sandy aisles of tapestries for sale

fluttering like hippie sails on winds

no longer atrophied by the inlet 

a liberty shared also by the waves

you’re wading away from

on a sandbar that seems to span

from shore to misty horizon –

to turn and face the ‘clothing optional’ signs

and staircase spiralling up through the forest –

the tree log seats on which men meditate

women sunbathe – ashen sand

the colour of hair left to age in peace

as many bodies here are and many aren’t –

to turn and face the human huckleberries

ripening on their bush, prickly with bark

the beaks of gulls thrice the size of those at home

the corners of Eckhart Tolle books

buried like joyous children in the thicket

of leathery, dreadlocked decrees

that powers have thought expedient to allow

like poisonous fish, to flourish in a pond

so as not to infest the nearby ocean –

do those mountains make you shiver

when you see them, or are

you warmer inside for not being up there?

both, but at different times, perhaps –

what is true is just as true when reversed –

wouldn’t that be what all these trippers

have stuck up on their eco-friendly fridges

and retro, gas-guzzling cars?

climb the stairs and you’ll see bumper stickers

and the University of British Columbia.

you won’t see alps or water until

she rounds the bend with the mansions

and gets onto the scenic road again –

that’s the psychic interplay making life exciting

and the beach, whatever your creed, so inviting.