Oarsmen heave
nets of mackerel
from cast-iron waves;
half-booted and silent,
they have no need to tell stories,
ask dus du mind?
how after creation God gathered
leftover shards, pressed them together
to make the hilt of a sword.
Women rule the shore,
croon grounded wool and songs
scented with the whisky of a peat fire,
watch the sliver of land
between water and cloud,
lightning rod of the far edge;
where men pull and point like compasses,
breathe in the charge of sea,
think nothing of rocks.
tk/August 2014
Delicious atmospheric read by R.A.D. Stainforth...
*Dark Harbor, 1943 by N. C. Wyeth
