Seawall

April 30 2020

The seawall

has a look of permanence

as if it's always been there.

As if it sprung from the land

fully formed,

as settled into the earth

as the softly verdant hills.

The massive boulders

that seem as eternal as the rock

from which they were quarried.

The worn concrete

battered by storms,

and weathering away

by the constant wash of waves

that scour its surface.

That has turned dark grey

with dull green stains,

the residue of weeds

rooting in its crevices,

algae

clinging to its face.

That bake, on hot summer days

when the sun is high

and the air still.

When the water is warm and flat and stagnant

and smells of dead organic matter,

and thin slicks of oil

refract the light

into every colour imaginable.

Which is just the sea

holding its breath

replenishing strength.

Knowing

that a man-made wall

holding an ocean at bay

is not so impervious

it can't be swamped or breached.

So we stand on top

with our backs to the continent

looking out to sea,

wondering just how long

this beach-head of land

can withstand the power of waves

the force of wind

the weight of rising water.

As if we were standing on the shoulders

of those who came before,

who scrimped and saved and built

and left great enduring works

to serve us all.

We may feel like giants

on this ancient wall,

but forget how small

we really are,

how much we owe.

Out of nowhere, an image of a battered old seawall came into my head. (The photo that illustrates this poem came after it was written.) What I originally wanted to explore was the mystery of its engineering: how do you pour concrete into a seething ocean or on the bank of a great river and build a perfectly planed and angled wall? Or how do you hold back an ocean to build it: by building a seawall to build another?? But, of course, we generally do not think these thoughts, because the seawall has the look of permanence, as if it's always been there. Not to mention that there haven't been many good poems written on the theme of civil engineering! So instead of googling how they're constructed, I conjured up that original image and set about describing it.

And soon found myself reverting to a familiar trope: man in nature; man's hubris; and man's ultimate insignificance.

I also couldn't help expressing my disappointment in our generation, who are standing on the shoulders / of those who came before, but are oblivious to our debt, have hardly lived up to our forbears, and have betrayed future generations. The last few generations won world wars, stoically withstood a great depression, and went to the moon and back. While we, in our greed and comfort, have ignored the great existential threat of climate change; thought the best way to fight terrorism was to keep shopping; and complain about being asked to stay at home watching Netflix in order to wait out a pandemic.

In the closing stanza, where I say (w)e may feel like giants, I'm channelling the great Isaac Newton, who wrote “If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of Giants”, his humble acknowledgement of his predecessors and intellectual forbears, without whom he could never have even begun to do his work.