Surf, Ocean
That much-touted oceanic feeling -
how available, you said, how rare
the well-and-truly-met 'I and thou'.
The surf that day at Torquay, Vic.,
rolled mightily in and in
all the time we lingered;
the wide bay opened
to a wider horizon
facing all of Bass Strait;
displaying three weathers -
two dark storms on the move,
one bright interval of sun.
Our earth and turf lookout
encompassed many surfers, tiny
against magniloquent rollers;
pitting their black-suited glistening
physiques crouching, standing
against surging whitening greens;
triumphing for high prolonged
moments until engulfment;
boards surfacing again
not far from the swimmers,
soon up again, paddling back out
for more - oceanic appetite.
Strenuous pastime! The thrills
surely addictive, single selves
in the multitudinousness,
yet to these old eyes
remote, otherworldly.
The grand menacing breakers
resonate thunderously.
Other days, windless, is there no
big surf? No throng of seekers?
Away from the beach, or there
and facing each other, whose meetings
prompt the feeling 'well met!'?
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