Moments IV

Water

I walk alone on a sandy shoreline, noting the footsteps not my own already washed away.

Water cares not for sins.

Soft lie the grains of the past, piled where gulls' children sleep.

Waves smoothing over the lines of rocky blanket are blind - they see not the size of the print that mars their bed. Whether it be child-petite and light, still light, and fleet with the wings of innocence or whether it be large and deep, carving its way down and seeking for a way to ingrain itself into change. Water cares not for sins.

Silently dozes the dawn on the horizon where her cup of dew is ready to be sprinkled over the world.

Choosing my place carefully, I sit just out of reach of the caroling cascades throwing themselves towards me.

It is said that water can slice its way through anything.

It suffocates the soil when angered, choking life and sending it to brittle, brownness. It swirls around the unlucky wanderer who happened to wander too far out, trapping him in a whirlwind and then, much like a cat tired of playing with its mouse, reaches from underneath and pulls him under. It weaves its way through mountains, carving and shaping and flattening.

Yet it cares not for sins.

Nor does it have mercy for the innocent.