The Path to the Beach
July 19 2010


The path to the beach
is beaten back, in summer.
By repeated passage.
By the dog, hurtling-up from the water,
fur slicked down
even browner, wet.

It skirts a patch of wild flowers
— tall straight stems
lacy white blossoms —
that waft a sweet enticing scent
of liquorice, lilac,
growing dense, after so much rain.
Bees buzz
like high tension wires,
louder, the closer you get.
So intense, in their fierce brief forage
they never notice us,
beating a path to cool relief
racing back, wrapped in towels.

I used to weed-wack the beach
shrapnel flinging-off in all directions,
in safety glasses, long pants
big puffy ear-protectors.
A well-armoured man
with his gas-powered scythe,
leaving clear-cuts, scorched earth
behind him.

But nature abhors a vacuum,
and weeds greedily fill
all vacant space.
I’m sure there’s a common name
as well as some multi-syllabic Latin
for these aromatic plants.
But I’d rather not know,
not claim them as my own,
not force them
into taxonomic order.
Instead, I enjoy them
for what they are;
like the bees, extract their nectar,
no questions asked.

The path to the beach
is beaten back,
careful to skirt the flowers.