Sounds The Oceans Made Me

First, the last I heard, The Pacific,

was a salty, saturated, clean white noise

if noise be good, for this was good,

and loud, a cleansing of all frequencies,

washed together and washed away

in a great, commanding, oceanic roar.

California, peaceful.

Second, Lance Cove, Newfoundland,

where beach rocks, grey and smooth ellipsoids,

the size of your head or thereabouts,

some few of them purple, all striped with quartz, 

lain like superabundant eggs by God, 

The Old Hen cackling away endlessly

as she tumbled Her work in a circular motion

that told their thousands, a soothing racket

to any teller, my ear being one.

Third, the boom and crunch of combers

on the bosom of Parlee Beach, 

Shediac, New Brunswick, where happy clams 

in holes in sand, rejoiced the coastline

was getting its comeuppance as body blows

that beat it fine and were followed, each, 

by a serene hiss of water through sand.

Life is so fine, those clams thought.