A Wave Poem by Thomas Edward Puleston Rickarby

You cannot be but what you are
and everything you've ever hard
is but the surf formed by a wave
unfolding to the beach.

What have we to fear in death?
Our gestures made by knowing hands
that wave hello and wave goodbye
a sign for those that come within
and leave our tiny reach.

When I'm old, descending stairs alone,
I won't regret what's not gone on,
but let a smile befall my head
like a footstep on path
and think and know that nothings gained
for long before its lost and laugh!

Even the ground we stand on will
be swallowed by the sun. That solar wave
incinerating every echo of our song
and everyone that's still alive
to hear the sound wave of a voice
die out before their ear-drums.