I resolved that this would be
My last visit
A pilgrimage of sorts
To the time-capsuled boat house garage,
To the skeins of geese,
Brown’s hotel, tables of half-drunk glasses.
Knowing this, my senses were on fire
For whatever presence lingers here,
Wondering if morning still comes
Wounded from the western hills
Or if cormorants still hug the shore,
Soaring into Welsh mists, like grey ghosts.
My eyes roamed the sifting, shifting sands,
Parting clouds, shadows across the estuary.
I watched a robin punch out his breast
And sing chord-less but pugnaciously.
In the distance a heron, not flying
But striding purposefully
Across the mudflats,
Breaking the equilibrium
So that nothing was contained
Within the moment.
And, in the evening,
The Welsh rains came,
Light as a young man’s laughter.
