Kawela Point

Land here isn’t much: a slice
Of grass, some naupaka, palms,
Dead roots, and lava pools.
The beach runs west, though,

For thirty miles, and to the right
Three deserted coves curve
Around to Turtle Bay. Beyond
That, the sand is heavy, hard

To walk through. It takes longer
Than we ever have to walk along
Wild, deserted beach the fifteen
Miles down to the stream.

Beyond our beach the lava turns
To limestone, and steps down
By layers into the sand. You
Can walk to the islands at low

Tide. And beyond them, underwater
Caves with a thousand fish.
Another channel before the reef,
Which blocks the fetch of wind

And sea six thousand miles straight
Down from the Aleutians. We see
The running waves slide over
Seamounts marking the channel.

The water gathers here, and runs
Away from shore, bearing boards
And girls and wood to the center
Of the bay, where the foam lifts them

In to shore. Another current pulls them
Back to the sweet spot in the reef,
Where the deep and running tide
Pours through, bringing with it

Plankton, wrasse, and yellow tangs
To feed the men who check their traps
At night. Along with Moorish idols,
Parrotfish, the tide corrals the Maka,

Mino, Oe, inside the shelter
Of the untouched beach, sand
Piling up from storms and swells
Beneath the trees, and bounced

By seiche back down the runnels
Of the berm, until the rushing bay
Is filled with shoals and banks and bars
That boomerang the surf around the day,

An endless yard of running caps
And steady roar, trying hard
To minimize their glee at having half
The world outside their door.

March 16th & April 11th, 2019
Kawela Point