Sailor's Grave Bay
It is raining and we run over the hill,
further away than our mothers had imagined,
to the bay, a real surf,
the sailor's grave in weeds and picket.
We haven't brought our boards
the car is parked back by the gate,
just as far as the sailing ship
when the sailor drowned.
I wonder if they brought the stone with them
knowing someone would drown,
further away than his mother had imagined,
the inscription says they were carrying cargo,
he should have brought a surfboard,
not pickets and white paint.
