Proof of time,
the image does
not stay
and that movement proves
the lack of even
memory.
The face
of God is large
beyond all pacific lines
where cliff-sides falter
and join the sea.
Those tides
some more green than Galway
find depths in miles not far
from the rocks.
And the rocks
aren’t green but instead
come from fire
sunburst and all
on this latest of days
where agate sleeps
at water’s edge.
Waves
like whales exhaust on
this beach opposite the rest
of the known world
across what seems only
this moment
but this moment has
no shores.
L. Ward Abel’s work has appeared in hundreds of journals (Rattle, Versal, The Reader, Galway Review, Main Street Rag, others), including two recent nominations for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and he is the author of four full collections and eleven chapbooks of poetry, including Green Shoulders: New and Selected Poems 2003–2023 (Silver Bow, 2023), and The Teller’s Road (Bottlecap, 2025) He is a retired lawyer and teacher of literature, and he writes and plays music (Abel and Rawls). Abel lives in rural Georgia.