The swimmer

They find his shoes and a pile of clothes
just above the high tide line,
the sins of his footprints
long since washed away
by the absolving water.

It is assumed he has drowned,
a fool to the foaming waves,
a bold, if pathetic farewell
written on the sea.

So they never see the naked swimmer emerge
after the waters had broken,
borne by the current down the coast;
he dresses in the fresh life he’d stashed
behind a fisherman’s shed
and walks off to a place
where he might, some day,
enjoy his long at last love
aloud and allowed.