He Claims the Damned Souls

©2007 Wayne Cook

Up in the curl of the silver surf,
You can see him riding high
Proud as a peacock arching its neck,
An emerald against the sky
His eyes gleaming their triumph,
Though feet are tight to the board
His muscles tense in concentration
As he beats the old man once more

Old man of the sea you claim the damned souls
By ones and twos and tens
You lie with wet lips in silence until
The winds wail and moan again
Oh, the way of the sea, and the life on the shore
Are seldom ever at peace
The young take their chance
At the watery dance
And the old man, he waits patiently

Down through the tube, the surfer skates on
Laughing his joy neath the roar
The hungry wave charges as if to say
Have your fun, boy, but this is war
It’s the battle of wit and timing and skin
As muscle and bone split the tide
I’d sooner be buried at sea than live
With the lubbers at office and grind

But once in a fortnight, with quiet and malice
The ocean will silently claim
A soul, a body, and fingers and mind
The boy who dares to disdain
The power, the old man, who swims on below
He grins as the surf soaks the shore
No man can live that close to the edge
And not bare his soul to the Lord