Time and Tide

The sea surrounding
makes his little hill
of sand the high ground.
There is no flatter place
than the middle
of a river mouth.
And, in years of wader watching,
no finer.

He checks the wind and clouds,
surveys the shore
and then through bright binoculars
captures the waders unriveting the sand.

His eye is taken
by children on the shoreline,
running careless, laughing,
just as he once did, those years ago,
not watching.

Now, a few more moments
before departing
to scan the sand and sky
for some rare sighting.

It is then a quiet shock
to hear the water lapping round his feet.
He checks his watch:
later than he thought.

He turns. The shores recede.
He would run like children,
if he could, but the water
washes deeper, sand runs out.
There is no high ground now.

He is waving. He is shouting,
but the wind puts its finger
to his lips.

The running water
lassoes his legs.
He stumbles.
The splash startles the waders.

Dark and massive
they flock into the estuary sky.