Red Rocks

The sound of shells underfoot

always brings me back to my childhood.

Two-hundred meters from the beach

a casual stroll, no shoes

burnt feet on hot sand

a cool ocean breeze

and a plunge into the warm sea.

Even though it’s Summer

the foreshore is abandoned here

there’s no one to hog the surf

just me and a local dog who escaped its leash

a piece of driftwood

and a lazy creek that greets the tide.

I strip off to the waist

jump into the spray and get submerged by crashing waves–

to float aimless on my back staring up at infinite blue

leaves me in contented awe.

.

A cloudless day

I walk back to the dunes

where the spinifex and goat's foot hugs the hill.

A hooded plover hides here to protect its eggs from hungry gulls

I wish her hatchlings well for their journey to the sea.

I leave footprints as a marker

and climb the summit of Red Rocks.

There are hundreds of pools each with their own ecosystems

and countless names engraved into the soft sandstone

each telling the world that they were once here.

I won’t carve my name today

I will only stare at lapping waves

for hours getting drunk from the sun

and hope to catch a glimpse of passing whales.

.

I ignore my skin burn

as pink turns to golden brown like crusty bread.

I don’t disturb the peace

as I walk home from the beach

I leave children’s castles standing

and tread careful near birds nesting.

My footprints are washed clean

by the breathing of the sea

while the rock’s rust clings to wet shorts

and lingers on my hands for the short walk home.

My new canine friend escorts me to the path

and then goes back to relaxing in the sun.

When I’m gone, I leave no sign behind

just one more shell collected.