The dogs, marking
sand with brief print,
lengthen and, boundless, plunge
at the cones of surf,
smashing them, barking.
A lone figure travails the blown beach. He drags a suitcase. He looks up from his feet and seems surprised to find another living here and, as we pass, I see that the suitcase is a lobster pot; a smashed collection of wire and wood. I trail the draglines of the broken box, toward the headland; unravelling history.
Reaching the steps, I leave the beach and
follow the slow curve of concrete and iron
that leads, solemn, to St. Mary’s, and is lined
with the empty benches.
The past days gather at this moment,
so I read their names, their anniversaries;
the hyphenated space between.