Saturday, 27 June 2009



  • Albion

    We race the falling sun beyond
    the yellow hills and past
    green grape vines
    and barns bending into meadows under
    their roofs painted the color of dried blood.

    The highway points west, leaping
    out over cliffs edging a fury
    deep within the churning waves.

    The sleek, cloud gray feathers
    of seabirds lift in the sea wind
    over the Albion River docks,
    my father whistles between his fingers

    a call to the ospreys, whose audience of children
    watches from below, its talons around
    a limp carcass of scales.

    The foghorn beyond the bridge
    bellows through the night
    and into dawn, a beast tormented
    by the surge of cold tide.

    Wet velvet harbor seals raise their
    round faces studded with hollow black eyes,
    to stare at fisherman navigating past exposed rocks
    in first light, a smell of decaying kelp
    wafting through the thick, tranquil fog.

    In the woodsmoke mornings
    the beach is quiet, the sand a dismal gray
    becoming alive with pebble of seaglass,
    studded in lavender and green and cobalt blue.
    They are heavy in my pockets

    treasures, sheltered touchstones.

    The dampening breeze carries a mysteriousness
    so profound that I am moved to stop
    and stare out over the water
    to drink it with every part
    of me.






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