The Sea Poem by Cleveland W. Gibson

My name is Hermes, I
tour the world because
my heels are gifted
with little wings. As a
minor God I'm drawn
into drama, though
I've seen plenty in my
time. Now here below
me lies Mother Earth,
and it's down there I
want to go. With a
casual grace I fly to a
place to sit and watch
the crowds but this is
not a pretty scene but
so grim, the place of
stark reality. There she
is, that Jane of tousled
hair, her make-up a
mess, she wears no
coat as she folds her
arms against the salt-
kissed wind, the North-
East one that blows
with such speed indeed,
straight from the
bucking sea to the St
George's Beach. I look
down on rough, tough
Cornwall and think of
Pirates and white skull
and bones on a black
flag of sin. But all this
is too much, as Jane is
no Corsair, of course
not, as she cries out his
name: "Michael!
Michael! Please God.
Help me. Help me
now." Her words are
strong but stronger
still is the wind that
plucks her every word
and scatters it away.
To me, Hermes, Jane is
fraught with grief but
what has happened
here today? She looks
around, and I do too to
see the ambulance and
a scattering of yellow
jacketed men on the
sand. "Let me see him,
my husband, " she
appeals and moves
forward, but a ring of
arms enclose her. She
protests and becomes
like a Nordic Beserker.
She strains. She pulls
against the many who
halt her. She stops to
gasp, taking in the air
and yet at the same
time trying to hide her
tears of disbelief but
nothing can lessen the
anguish deep within
her soul. I see how she
shows no concern for
herself-no vanity. Her
red lips contort with
her growing torture. I
hear: "Next of Kin? "
Jane pauses then darts
towards the parked
ambulance on the
beach. "I Must see my
Michael." Instantly
her screech ends as she
sees the little girl with
damp blonde hair
lying on the stretcher.
Jane can only raise her
face to the heavens.
"Don't take Michael, "
she cries. Her ‘cri de
coeur ‘ on the wind is
swept over the
breaking waves,
onwards out to sea, to
the storm. She recoils
in horror, stepping
back on unsteady feet
to trip. As she hits the
sand her handbag
opens, scattering her
cherished photos.
"Quick help her! " In
falling Jane's head
strikes a rock: she
bleeds. Again she cries
with both hands
clutching her head, her
fingers unable to stop
the red, her eyes closed
like steel shutters. Her
single cry of pain is
this time in step with
the jolt of images
squeezed into her
tortured mind. Now
Dante's Inferno belongs
to her. Her cry forces
the rescue crew to rush
to assist, others write it
in their paper reports.
A portent of tragedy
links their presence on
St George's Beach,
with its solitary flying
Red flag. All await the
dénouement, the
discovery of a dead
Hero. She gasps once.
Only once, it is enough
as withinher mind
darkness wins. Now
she lies there on
a second stretcher,
alongside Lucy, the
little girl saved from
drowning by her
husband Michael. I,
Hermes, see the
ambulance set off with
its two patients, its
sirens bugle the crisis,
its lights signal danger.
Crowds watch in
silence, they who will
one day acknowledge a
braveman yet ignore a
woman deprived of his
love until the day she
dies. The ongoing scene
is unreal, it is set
in concrete; how the
other Gods I know
must weep watching an
endless search by a
town looking to claim
a Hero or Idol. The
simple facts are cruel;
Michael swims out to
rescue a father and
daughter stranded on
a sandbank. He gets
the girl Lucy to the
shore but when he tries
to bring back her
father both men are
swept out to die at sea.
"The pain will grow
less. Try a Help Line.
Rest. Pray more. Take
a long break. Diet.
Exercise." Jane knew
those sayings by heart
but as she sat at the
kitchen table weeks
later memories still
engulfed her mind.
The photographs
before her seemed
animated, recalling
sounds and smells of
ecstatic days of love in
the summer with her
husband in France.
Those great days she'd
never forget. She wept
again. But in these
weeks after the tragic
incident she was alone,
unable to face a bleak
future. Her hero had
gone. He'd been her
Idol. Unconsciously she
started to play
Michael's favourite
vinyl, a classic by the
late Charles
Trenet. They had
bought it in 'Orange.'
The talented French
composer mirrored
her tender thoughts in
"La Mer"; romance,
words about "...love.
And...the sea." Jane
stared out of the
kitchen window.With
her senses so
heightened, the words
of "La Mer" lay like
subliminal triggers
deep within her soul.
The compelling words
conjured up visions of
her Michael gazing
into her eyes, his
roughness of skin as he
first kissed her neck
and burnt her eager
lips with the passion of
a favourite lover. Her
soul ached as she
fingered her gold
band. She made coffee
and stared, stared at
the sea. Charles Trenet
sang again for her and
her Idol Michael. A few
moment later she
finished writing the
message and left it on
the table. With a deft
flourish she threw her
car keys on top of the
note; finished her
drink. She set the
record player to repeat;
looked again at the sea
through the window.
Suddenly a catch came
to her throat; it was the
inexplicable."Michael! "
She screamed and sped
off. She was gasping
with the physical effort
as she reached the
Cornish St George's
Beach, her eyes
scrutinising each
breaking wave for the
smiling face she'd
seen. Her reason, her
logic deserted her as
she battled to explain
seeing his face in the
sea. She just knew she
had! A lump came to
her throat. As she stood
there distraught, all the
familiar fears
owned her again.
Suddenly she felt his
firm but gentle touch
on her sleeve. Her
brave heart skipped a
beat as the hand
slipped into her own.
But Michael's hand
was never so soft and
she uttered a deep sigh
as the hand gripped
her more tightly. She
sank within herself at
the shock of that touch.
A look into such blue,
such sea-deep tender
blue eyes melted her
heart."My daddy died
too, " Lucy said.The
floodgates opened;
Jane wept bitter tears.
She tasted salt, the
warm tears as rivulets
on her cheeks. "I
know, darling. I know.
Forgive me, I've been
so selfish."Other people
had hurt too. Again she
wept but this time with
deep relief. Her lungs
worked like bellows as
she took great gasps of
air. Nothing it seemed
could stop her crying.
She scooped up the
child; held her tight.
La Mer was still
playing as Jane made
drinks for the three of
them in the kitchen.
Lucy's grandmother
sipped her tea; read
the suicide note Jane
had written, as it lay
there on the table. It
sent shock waves
through the kindly
woman."Oh! My poor
dear." Instantly the old
woman stood up to
embrace Jane and
young Lucy. Nobody
spoke for a long time;
the three just looked
out at the sea,
watching the
scintillating waves
through the kitchen
window. I, the winged
God called Hermes,
watched too. Charles
Trenet crooned on.
Michael was her
Angel, her Hero, her
Idol. A surreal scene
indeed as Jane knew,
even from beyond the
sea her Idol had made
sure she'd never be
alone.

FIN