Graveyards, Boatyards, and the Waters of Chaos

Many meters bellow me, the sea that brought us life laps at the shore that sustains us; its gray water like the fur of Coyote; randomly ruffling in the high winds. Each eddy and twist claims more of the beach and leaves behind a fragment of a distant land's soil and spirit; how often does each grain undertake this voyage, and how long does each stay on the shore? A voice that fades with the waves tells me that this is the seas secret; these decisions lie in its hands, whilst its fingers stroke unthinkingly at the land. To the right of me are the ordered lines of buildings and roads, a patchwork of civilisation laid across an uneven bed. I pull a blanket round my shoulders for security and protection from the wind, but somehow it works its way through the quilt, cutting at me with a terminal chill. Up here I am like God looking out over Chaos and Order, and like God I am surrounded by the dead; souls on a voyage back across the same waters that gave birth to them, each in a wooden vessel beneath the shovelled earth, their tomb stones masts erected to catch the inescapable, unending wind. Looking out I try to grasp a vision of what lies across the water, but I am denied understanding by the uncertain weather of these days; gray clouds fill my eyes, winning the battle against the Suns efforts to illuminate; a soft brick wall between man and angles. I think I hear footsteps in the water far bellow; an ambivalent foxtrot of soft pads against the surf, (the Devil and God have four feet between them), but when I listen again all I can hear is the creaking sound of the boats in the yard, straining at their moorings with the pull of the tide. Like my companions, I will one day take up that voyage, part-exchanging my stone house for a stone sail, leaving my shore and myself like casting off ties, to follow those padding feet to the embrace of the creator.