The In Between
It is a crisp morning, bright and sharp.
The seagrass cuts a relief against the sand.
The sky is improbably blue.
Just over the dunes you can hear the waves,
refuges from the night’s storm,
they are loud, hard and insistent.
It is the in between time.
Between seasons. Between weather.
The world dancing between hope and fear.
You feel your fears in your stomach.
You feel love there too. And hope.
A constant clash in your gut.
You are accustomed to it, and now,
sixty five years in, you can even find beauty in it,
aware of the possibilities, and the strange fact
that results are rarely as dire as you believe,
and often better, but you never need to be bored
for everything is in transition
and you just walk the path in wonder.