The sea stretches its white tarpaulin between
two closed houses, fog obscuring the passage.
Rain mutes day; grief weighs in, splays shadow
across blank pages, faded blue roses. A blur
shapes itself: green gunwales, white wheelhouse.
Behind five-layered sky, Ursa Major sleeps
the sleep of monuments and stars.
At Little Beach, waves surge, repeat
as low tide sweeps sand’s reach into the cove.
Loons dive, reappear. Bees work beach roses.
I climb over rocks, slide onto sand and walk
the tideline as water rises and waves
wash footprints away, efface my steps.
Hollows fill with sea after tide-rake, go flat.
I scoop a smooth green rock, target a scrub pine
and throw. On impact, the sound is two sunk stones
smacked together. A huge tent-winged bird rises
through an aperture in fog that opens sky.
I crumple against a boulder, stunned, bereft
of what was never mine to hold, to name.