Five. Between each the ages
that separate, yet unite
the pillared span.
The oldest leads and guides
as the short, crooked thumb
of long experience.
The others follow. Up and down
to the last small boy
trailing behind.
Unevenly they stride
through the gray, silent dawn
toward the sea
where the waves still breathe
of sleep, and empty miles
unwind the shoreline.
Five figures probe the wind,
the tide. They pace their length
along the sand
and pause. No light breaks.
The stillness keeps, as though
the current
deserted, had suddenly ceased.
With poles, hooks, bait in hand,
the five move on.
Heavy with clouds, the sky
broods behind a mist,
leans on cliffs
and frightened by its dream
of a dead world's beach,
begins to slip.