And he went down onto the beach

And he went down onto the beach, digging between the rocks with a stick, occasionally bending to examine an empty shell; And the tide was rising slowly, slowly rising, growing muffled behind him, cutting off his escape route, eating into the sand; And he did not look around, did not turn, intent on the business at hand, intent on the minute examination of the left-over life of the strewn ebb-tide, Intent on the former homes of the dead molluscs, the husks of extinct sea-creatures, the dried pieces of seaweed, the skeletons of indecipherable fish; And the flood-tide grew loud in his ears, pounding on the beach, frothing over pitted sand, precipitating the hasty withdrawal of long, glistening worms; But the blood pounding in his mind was only the remembrance of the pounding sea, was only a shell held to his ear, carrying him back into the past, into history; And then the boys appeared, playing in the distance, bounding over the beach like dogs at play, barking like dogs in their ecstasy, intense as children at nightfall, playing, waiting to be called by invisible parents; And his eyes followed them, followed the long loops of their sudden runs, followed the long tracks of their prints crossing and recrossing, dissolving on the wet foreshore; And his heart followed them, followed their somersaults, followed their spontaneous adolescent antics, followed the sudden resting of their bodies on the sand; And his mind followed them, followed the sublime spontaneousness of their actions, followed the darting joy of their suddenness, the unfettered freedom of their Now; And the flood-tide pounded on the beach, unnoticed, the narrow pathway of sand all but covered by the rising sea; And still he did not turn, did not see the only artery of escape slowly closing, silted up by the eroding waters; And they did not see it, intent, laughing, free, themselves, as he had been himself and free, before the tide had gone out, before he had been left stranded, with all the debris, alone; And he was not alone now, standing, solemn, watchful, a piece of driftwood in his hand, carving light undecipherable hieroglyphics on the wet sand at his feet; And he was not alone, watching the boys, his mind joined them, wrestled, rolled, played, a formal counterpart to their ragged romping, a droning bass-note to the bubbling figuration of their dance; And the tide rose, pounding.

And he knew that the theories he had formulated all his life were as nothing compared to this celestial liberation, this dream on the beach in the early morning; And the tide rose; And he was not alone; And the sound of the pounding waves grew louder in his mind; And he turned, seeing himself stranded by the incoming tide, seeing the boys still playing, unaware; And he called to them, warning them to get out, calling over the roaring pounding of the waters in his ears; But they did not seem to hear, still intent on their play, still rolling and wrestling, the wet seaweed sticking to their torn, ruffled clothes; And he called again, more urgent, his voice carried away by the rising wind, he called and they could not hear; And he was glad; And then they stopped their play, and came, and stood before him, solemn, silent; And they looked at one another, and they turned their heads, and their eyes met his in the early morning light; And the tide rose Pounding The tide, receding, leaves behind the debris of a thousand lives The cigarette-butts, paper cups, orange peels, condoms The garbage of a slowly dying planet Together with the husks of extinct sea-creatures, the dried pieces of seaweed, the skeletons of indecipherable fish, the shells of long-dead molluscs And, early on Saturday morning, the 19th of February, 1977, The drowned bodies of two boys: James Tovey and Mark Leighton, both fifteen, who had taken a ferry to the Isle of Wight and, while beachcombing, had been caught by the incoming tide And, stranded on the white sheets of the bed, the former home of the Right Honourable Member of Parliament for Grimsby and Foreign Secretary, Mr. Anthony Crosland Lies, like an empty shell, hollowed of political thought Still sounding faintly of the sea.