These sands shall not feel my feet again
for I have learned not to fight fate.
I accept reality and turn
from this murky mirror termed Atlantic,
abandoning my search for solace
in its reflection of what might have been.
 
In the somberness of acquiescence,
I shake the sand from my shoes
and leave the strand deserted
for the moment it takes fiddler crabs,
impatient pelicans, and hungry seagulls
to reestablish their sovereignty.
 
Had I been the bard Dafydd,
I might have beckoned some gliding seagull
to inform you of a lingering love,
but neither are you the golden-haired Morfudd
nor Carolina gulls Welsh.
 
Moving inland, I can take a modicum of comfort,
knowing this terminal pilgrimage had meaning
in occasioning the seaside prayer
said in silence for you and your new love,
as I stooped to write in the sand a final poem,
a one-word effort worth a thousand pictures:
your name.