A Place of Silver Glinting

A Place of Silver Glinting

It is November
and the day is
hard and shiny.
The winter sun
lies low,
a bewitching light casting
off the headlands.
They come in buzzing,
landing softly,
shy of the
drop that awaits
the ones who are
less careful.

Stillness settles

This history is hard won
Objects speak care-worn tales
of repurposed usefulness,
cherished by the chapped hands
of generations past-due explaining.
Like the old books, kept
always close, air and salt
embed their skins
with brittle melancholy.

Beneath the lichen lie
the Youngs and Ames and Ridleys.
Bonds forged through necessity
and love yes, still
retain the salty vestiges of
older claims pulled deeper.

This is a land of porcelain, lace
and old silver glinting.
The apples trees,
like old teachers,
stoop to proffer wisdom,
telling time's relentless
passing.

And so we are reminded
of what has come
and gone
before,
of who was loved
and stood
bravely on,
wind sweeping,
skirts flapping,
our own indomitable
ancestral
kin.

The Crossing

The Crossing

A Day on Matinicus Island

A Day on Matinicus Island