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A Poem a Day into the Millennium
4 November 1999



At the shore break thought
swirls of island foam about
vast distance as whorled wooden
ship scraps laden with the history
of gull calls
craw craw
abaft and dazed dots weather
grey billow pilings anchored
by slabs, slate green iron plate,
tossed about
edge on
into smoky seas.

Canyon scars deep in the night-mind
crater marks of meteoric orgin,
bolides of ice and organic compound
lost to the race of men forever
imploding, fhmmmp
in rich grits of sand
stand toe-to-toe bubbles of rhapsody
scrubbing the scoured beach
clean of sound
broken shell
bleached covs bobbing
in surf broth.

Sunday does not return.
Monday is a slice of melon moon
razoring silence through blue haze
sere sea steam rising
brine-baked racks
of rusted sunlight voices
out-of-reach beaches ground down
into scales of broken glass
old slivers of feet
call, call again
on grey, green-grey
shivering rip-tides,
the cold, cold
closure of the shore.

- Red Slider

image of stork .to Red's page.....to archives..image of stork

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