On Sunday mornings we would hike in,
parting oversized leaves and long-spiked grasses,
hauling faded snorkeling gear and
water bottles stuffed into sweaty daypacks,
following a path to the edge of quiet.
Then sound would creep in, that low rumble
of water exploding through cracks and fissures,
foaming up crevices into pools,
partially filled with tenacious bits of life
holding fast to their spots on carved-out wet rocks.
Unperturbed, we would scramble over
stone outcroppings, staggering down the beach trail
into a sudden blast of blinding
white light, glaring through a translucent shimmer
of coral sand laid upon sands of coral…
And this too had a sound, it echoed
the hollow crunching that formed each step, settling
into a memory of itself,
repeated in the prints we happened to leave,
hot-footing it to the large rocks near the shore.
We’d turn and look back up at the dark
streams of green vegetation trailing far down
that cliff-face, waving slightly, pushed by
beach heat rising high in the air, translucent
as our feet dancing with bubbles in the waves.
Photo by Katy Doherty on Unsplash