If I go before you,

my soul will be waiting

just beyond the crashing surf,

watching for you as long as it’s allowed

by whoever’s skipper of the crowd,

until you are beside me,

once again.

I will be riding on gentle rollers,

my ashes washed up on the beach,

just so much bleached,

dried out dederius,

tossed up to be scoured and scored

by wind blown sand,

adding heft to the soft dunes

where lovers lay

and children play,

squeeling in the sun

and laughing gulls squwack in dissonant unison,

as land and sea contend for shifting border rights.

From there,

when the tide is full to turning

and the charts are spread,

weighted down for plotting

and the bow points out to sea,

all together, free,

you and I will launch-out,

to search for and explore

our next port of call.