A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Black and white. I like

the clear-cut border.

Boundaries are safe.

Arrogant perhaps, or naïve,

to think I can define

Life’s complexities as one

or the other. Your gentle touch

that traced my outline revealed

to me the shades

of grey.

It is difficult to draw my line

in the sand, as I learn

that the expanse of sand is the line

between the tossed sea

and hard, dry land.

The tide is not a constant.

Damp sand, moulding beneath my feet,

is, I think, too grey, but white sand,

dry, white sand,

apparently safe white sand,

is also grey,

permeates my books, invades my bag,

penetrates my clothes, scratches my skin,

distracts me with thoughts of

the beach.  I realise that grey

is unveiled when the line between

black and white is magnified.

Grey is that line. Grey is

the extensions of the black

reaching into the white,

tempting me,

taunting, teasing,

so tantalising: the beach,

drawing me towards the dangerous waters.

The beauty of the sea

is alluring. I yearn

for it to caress my skin,

to calm me, to excite me.

My body aches to be immersed

in the cool fluidity, and yet

I know that the price

of immersion is drowning.

I know that to yield

to the water is to sink

into the dark depths,

to surrender my life

to the water’s immensity. I have

waded in the shallows,

wishing for the water

to wash over me further, but

the time has come for me

to choose, and I do what I know

I must. I walk back up the beach,

despite the ocean’s magnetism.

I do not regret that I will

carry with me that memory

of water lapping at my legs,

until such time that it is right

for me to return. I do not regret

that I will continue to find

the occasional grain of sand

amongst my things, causing the pangs

of sweet memory of forbidden fruit,

tasted, tested, but not eaten. Guiltily,

I almost regret that I am walking away

from the bliss I was close enough to touch.

Black and white. I return

to my safety.  Memory of grey

seems to be just a dream.