Why eulogize
that great burnt plate,
hoary grey grasses
petrified with firework ash?
A nightmare of salt
and iodine, its gullies flash
in rust and ochre,
crystalline fur
like the pelt on a dried cat.
And the smell—
somewhere between
a lobster pot
and dead impatiens,
a wire brush in the mouth.
Next year they’ll break the dikes
and let the fish return.
How strange to mourn
this scarry land we walked
so many Sundays
when we loved
and gulped the brave air in,
our bootsoles marking
the old sea floor,
the new sea floor.
Posted for
DVerse Poets’ Pub
Open Link Night #60
Hello, DVerse poets!
Perfect description of the place that includes a keep sense of smell. I experienced this kind of thing way back in the cities when California built a dam in the Sierras and flooded the small town of Kernville to create Lake Isabella. It's quite a poignant happening.
ReplyDeletea wire brush in the mouth...yikes...that makes your point...and why mourn those places that were once special...well those memories are def hard to give up....even when taken from us....def like your touch as well on other senses...
ReplyDeletegood to see you!
An almost acrid immediacy in the sense of place here. Powerful and evocative.
ReplyDeleteVery powerful write and googled Bair Island on the strength of it.
ReplyDeleteSad to hear your Sunday explorations will come to an end...
Anna :o]