Father Pier

By Patty Merski

Upon a beach, where land meets lake,
a structure stands, where waters break,
erected by hands from sand and stone
is Father Pier, and the place I’ve grown.

Whose legs, embedded in rocks and shells,
break the advance of watery swells, and
whose warm surface welcomes the summer guest,
to read or paint or perhaps, just rest.

Where upon is leaned a fisherman’s pole,
to dangle bait in a watery hole,
who provides a makeshift diving board
and a tie-up for a kayak’s cord.

Where, upon the water, flat stones are skipped
and swimmers practice their finest flips.
Where pebbles gather ’round watery feet,
which beach glass hunters warmly greet.

And, where in autumn, painted rocks are left,
to be washed away in wavey theft.
And the pounding waves of winter storms
fashion his slowly changing form.

Whose thighs withstand tumultuous seas,
clothed in dunes of winter’s freeze.
Where in the Spring, new rocks are pressed
in countless numbers upon his chest.

Then southerly winds melt the snow
and birds return and flowers grow,
and the waves roll next to Father Pier,
we know, once more, that summer’s here.

This article appeared in Beachcombing Magazine Volume 50 September/October 2025.