This lonesome beach,
rocks of horseback brown;
these rollrock waves lapping,
slapping down--
primal sharks once roamed
and thrashed in foam.
Gulf waters, green,
calmly still come home.
And could an artist
stroll over dune-walks
with brush-in-hand
to tell us color talks?
Oh, yes! Windpuff
spray of creamy froth
curdles history,
withdraws to briny broth.
Caspersen knew this beach,
once bereft of artists
capturing time
in rocks now cleft.
Young painter, you are right!
Wildness and wet:
long let waves weave
in wilderness yet.
Cory, I salute:
En Plein Air seascape meets
verse praising...
and no Niagara greets!
No...praising deeper
dynamics of the sea
kissing rocks,
sand, in mirrored destiny.
What a charm wafts
its salt and airy scent!
Waters flowing, ebbing,
are wonders meant.
Yes, Cory, you've
captured tidal run,
frozen it, yet hidden
pull of Moon and Sun.
This lonesome beach,
with rocks old as time;
these rollrock waves
their ocean brothers mime;
primal sharks have lost teeth,
unseen, but here,
no longer extant,
shed their memories of fear.
Cory, I salute;
En Plein Air's Time's flute
playing a medley
salty and astute.
Ron Wiseman, 2014.