Ode to Waves

I do not live by the seaside,


but in you, waves, I have faith.

In your break and splash, in your rise and ruin,

I hear the words: It hardly matters.



I admire your practiced approach.

Sometimes you don your grey uniform,

sometimes you wear the green one with the shining buttons.

You calculate perfectly, and always with ease.



I once hired an Argentine plasterer who reminded me of you.

He spoke of long lunches with other tradesmen, at makeshift tables,

with local wine, and a radio always at his side.



You, waves, who trade junk and real estate with dry land,

you never stop to ponder the deal you are getting.



And what if days of work drafting up a heavy swell

should come to nothing?

You simply shrug your shoulders and take a welcome spell .