Early January.
I’m done with winter.
Weary of reading;
Of writing, disheartened.
No poems today.
A somnolent novel lies open on
The nightstand. Half-read,
And misunderstood.
Death and dread,
Both half-baked and shivering,
Find their way inside,
Kick off their boots and,
Brew Cuban coffee, and
Hang their wool socks on the stove.
Cold water has
Swept down from the Maritimes.
Gasbag politicians,
Have unspooled the mooring line.
It’s snapping now in the
Ocean wind, that blows
Now from the north,
And other times from the east.
A cruel tide drives into the sand.
It pushes like a fisherman
On a halibut laden handcart.
Then–when the continent has
Shifted, sufficiently, it rushes
Back toward Africa, where it
All started.
“Pull us from the dive Captain”
We cry to our pilot.
But there is a blood red demon
In the cockpit. Expect no mercy.
Give it your best, but in the end
There is only one way out.
We’re going straight in!
“Swim parallel to the shore”
Shouts a bare headed priest;
A snippet of his clerical collar
Barely visible behind a
Red mackinaw jacket.
We’re survivors, not saviors,
You shout back to him.
A blind woman in a
Pea-green duck coat
Walks the beach with
A tiny dog in her arms,
And stands knee deep
In the water. She points
To the east as a squadron of
Brown pelicans, climb out
Of the mist by the lighthouse.
Thirteen of them, she says,
I hear 26 wings aloft.
Then she says: It was here, right here, where
He was taken from us in 1960.
My sainted brother Byron!
I smell the current.
Ed's end of the planet books 