Time goes this way and that
and always with a springy step.
Forward is one way now
and another the next,
turning backward without warning.
Waves break and rise and break again
until at last all voices are silent in the chilly death of one last winter,
the sand washed away to reveal that which is the only truth:
There is no one left to tend the field
and the last ray of summer sun
has died for the final time.