Epitaph

No bloom again, no path or touch. No cold dash of waves, no warmth of moving water. No sea. No burst shells on rippled shore or popping seaweed tangled Among black fragments of mussels. No gull call or whisper of sand in risen wind. No cloudburst. No strong blue at the horizon. No glistening slugs or tilting jellyfish. No dried brine on my shoulders. Never again the slap of my feet On smooth, wet sand.