Channel Mist
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Captain, with your fateful chancy weight-balancing gait you've felt safer on a moving deck than on land. What is it sets you up and apart a two-hearted creature, beached and unhappy on your home sand? This village is where you grew up, to the sounds of boat talk. And doors were shut against the mist coming in. You like to look out beyond the green shapeshifting current, to where distinctions blur along the horizon. It's hard to tell what rightly belongs to the channel mist drifting across, wistful and tentative from the north, and what to the sea itself, that great divider of death from dream, and heart from crazy heartless circling. © 1990 by Beth Stevens |