A final shadow on the dampness
conjures up my only son.
He sits brown,
cross-legged at ebb's edge,
humming in heavy mist,
beached shaman offering memories,
forgiveness,
a little salt. I wait breathless,
hope for a wave, another vision.
In its wake I suspect
it shall be him, alive again,
damp, salty,
chanting prayerful over me.
It is only by design
what I believe, I see.