with two quotes from Zibgniew Herbert
Ann Howells
Those who sailed at dawn/ but will never return/
left their trace on a wave —
Down home, this island whispers —
pine scented breath familiar as lavender
that clings to Grandma’s sheets. Harvest moon
scatters sequins. Boats at anchor. Ropes
creaking as wind shifts. Portholes dark.
I meander dunes, wander
the tideline; steps matching heartbeat
rhythm of the waves. And life slips
like sand through fingers as I contemplate
snug wooden boats turned coffins
beneath kaleidoscopic waters.
I found myself in dusty album pages,
family Bible; I’m there, labelled
in faded sepia calligraphy every generation:
great-grandmas, grand aunts, cousins once
and twice removed, a tenuous binding
to a county, an island, a home.
a shell fell to the bottom of the sea
beautiful as lips turned to stone.
CLAMOR 