Fundy Shore

Louise Carson

The sea, oh, the sea pushes white gates on to the sand land.

Words where you expected a blank.

‘What’s over there?’ pointing.

‘Take the long way round.’

Trees give and take, like us, as they must.

Distressed, throat hole, so small, closes.

A caw, rustles, flapping in the tree.

Tragedy, smaller birds gone silent.

‘I’ll be outside. Call me when it’s time to go.’

That face in the mirror, not what I expected to see,

gives way to how I feel:

pushed about, never missed,

but free. Oh yes. Free.

Tomorrow, I will guess, straight-edge, delicate.

‘How could you know?’

The waitress brings a fortunate cup of coffee

to plug my headache.

Unconcerned by any predators,

eyes close as I drink.

Hard to push on without credentials.

Nevertheless, the white gates are pulled back into the sea.

As well, and wonderfully, the trees break light on the road.