The evening’s oppressive heat and humidity
finally broke in the middle of the night
in a fierce storm
leaving the morning
cooler, yet still damp.

On the beach
we wrote
“Isaac was here”
in the sand
as we looked out
over a great sea of grief
to our friends
remembering their son
in London.

In the sand was a leaf of dune grass
looking like a trampled palm leaf
on the streets of Jerusalem
towards the end
of Holy Week.

Near the words
were tiny fish
washed a shore
by the storm
that couldn’t be saved.

The waves will erase our words,
but not the memory
Isaac was here, too.