The Sea Wall

I like the sea wall because it’s still there, re-shaped by water and the years, its contours softened, sagging into sand, solid but submissive to the sea. I like the way its stone surface has dimpled, and a strip of rusted steel protrudes like useless bone. I like to walk to the sea wall after a storm, when the beach is a chaos, ragged and unruly, littered with broken shells and seaweed. I linger there for awhile, appreciating its elegant transition from utility to art, and hope my own decline will be as graceful.