Black waves, white-tipped with rage, lash at the shore,
Exploding shrapnel spume on crags of grey;
Tall, stalwart stones still silent—moist with tears—
Saturnine, strong, with nothing left to say.
Yet still the waves mete out unbridled pain,
As if persistence might soon breach that wall;
Wroth tantrum tortured, seething, spite sustained,
Glass fists smite granite, shatter—and then fall.
O life! O love! O hope! O destiny!
What might I yet have done to have prevailed?
What pride abides in such futility?
What providence should stand here unassailed?
So with pure might, ‘gainst savage stone I stand,
Till sweat and blood and tears grind stone to sand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.