Such devotion to your practice.
In the cold pre-dawn dark you rise
and put on your habitual black vestments;
you pad quickly along the empty street,
past the harbour, and along the base of the cliffs.
Leaving behind the vestiges of the everyday
you enter the elemental in an autumn dawn;
congregating in the chosen place,
you sit on your boards together, waiting.
At the edge of the ocean wilderness
you rise and fall with the breathing of the sea;
you are waiting, you are breathing, you are being;
when the wave comes, the moment is all.
When the wave comes, you are up on your board
and dancing at the edge of all that is:
you break open the moment, become the wave,
enter the moment, open the ocean of all.
The wave of the moment is infinite;
if it ends you paddle back to the shrine;
at the ocean’s edge you are breathed by the sea
and spat out on to the wave again and again.
As dusk falls into dark you trickle back past the cliffs;
you pad, unattached, through the everyday harbour world;
the sea is empty, the wave awaits its devotees;
another day at the monastery of surf is over.