Piling up the driftwood, I can see
The phases of our lives that were like tides:
That came and went, with regularity,
Till we no longer noticed that they changed.
For faces we once saw have moved beyond,
And voices heeded then – now others’ guides;
It isn’t that we were not true, or fond –
Just how far down the shore we each have ranged.
I turn to thank you, but you are not there.
I write down now, what you will never read:
Like driftwood, piled up, exposed and bare —
I’m cut off, but I’ve no life left