Sounds The Oceans Made Me

First, the last I heard, The Pacific,

was salty, saturated, clean white noise

in California, if noise be good, and this was good

and loud, a cleansing of all frequencies,

washed together and washed out

in a great, commanding, oceanic roar.

Second, Lance Cove, Newfoundland,

where beach rocks, grey and smooth ellipsoids,

half the size of your head or larger,

some of them purple, all striped with quartz, 

superabundant eggs, laid by God, 

The Grand Old Hen cackling 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

onto the bosom of Parlee Beach, Shediac, 

New Brunswick, where happy clams 

in holes in sand, rejoice the coastline

is getting its comeuppance as body blows

that beat it and are followed, each, 

by a serene hiss because it’s so fine.