Nancy: Autumn tides, often with a wind pushing even more water into the bay, can make the lane into a temporary arm of the sea.
High Tide, New Moon
Home lies on the far side
of the whale songs, on the far shore
of the Labrador waters.
This is the road home,
but this is the sea;
we are on the far shore
of the land of bed and teakettle,
and our feet are washed by the herring
of the one sea.
We must wait here, and home is on the far side,
across the mewing of seals,
down the road that sways with the stroke
of great flippers.
We must wait, and when we do go, at last,
through the waters,
we know that our home is an island,
part of the one sea;
that we are washed by the blood of seals,
that the great whales sway with our passing,
and the moon.
When we are home, the door swings inward
on bed, and teakettle,
on the one sea.
Alan: Leaving home, heading home: the same road, but never the same.
East Of Ellsworth
The traffic thins with the day.
The road narrows with the light.
Two hours yet to go –
one long slithery slide Downeast –
but I’m content, gas station
coffee warming my gut,
alone, moving through darkness
and increasing rain,
the car like an old horse,
knowing, from here, its own way home.
“High Tide, New Moon” first appeared in East of the Light (Stone Man Press & Slow Dancer Press, 1984)