The sun glosses over a morning’s dew
Sailboat clotted at the low-tide, the wrecked wave,
I remember forty years between age and youth.
I profited a memory, but the scenery changed,
Now patched with dwarfed lumps of sand
The bay’s idyll, worn out by time, it’s in a bastard state.
It gave me good use in a ship white, shrunk to a wind.
Colored sales flapping in a draft;
Waves beautiful in the formlessness of the bay,
Cliffs edged the land’s end, stony shores grudging
Under saltwater, I walked among them
And stuffed my camera with photos of a still horizon.
Now views are boarded up with summer homes,
The sun dwindles behind stockade fences;
A grain of sand is all that’s left; and that is that.
Seagulls once in a ceiling without a blackness,
Now scavenging in a traffic of planes,
Circling under shadows of metal flights, close to a death.
The bay waters no longer running clean
As factories run on and on, squatting in a shank of profit;
The fish are gone, filleted in a cannery, bones under
A tent of starving gulls. My shadow is black.
Filtering away from the past; I probe for a fractured image,
Cold and final, resting in the attic of my skull.
Copyright © 05/12/18 lance sheridan®