The Wave Caller
On sharp-edged rocks, he
curves in ecstasy;
a calligrapher’s brush stroke,
black and slender,
he salutes the stars, calls
the waves
as salt air sprays, fans
around him,
his didgeridoo a hollowed log,
but a horn of plenty
breathing secrets in fierce
longing,
vibrations rumbling out to
sea.
He leans into the smell of
ocean,
his mind alert to subtle
clues.
Courtier to the king tide’s
coming,
piper to the great Pacific,
paying homage to the mighty
waters,
tuning into their surge and
swell.
Now the waves rear up, heave
and roll,
gigantic breakers barrelling
in,
full throaty riffs that
thunder, roar,
shred the air, pound the
shorelines
while a full moon lifts, a
silent shimmer
as Mount Warning locks in
mists of night.
And all the while he weaves his
songs,
mournful rhythms rising,
falling,
communing with the ancient
magic -
synchronicities long
forgotten,
exorcised from the golden
coast.
He doesn’t see the gathering
crowd;
he doesn’t hear their restless
murmurs
when cell phones, cameras,
iPads click.
He’ll be on Facebook within
the minute,
a digital presence,
then the moment’s passed.
But I’m filled with questions,
awash with wonder,
as he slips into the velvet
night.
© bba 22/04/2012
