Old Couple at the Window


The old fisher couple sit at their kitchen window
on the outer Guernsey coast, sipping their second
cup of Irish tea, on the table a starched white cloth,
a sugar bowl with painted roses, lace in the window--
they listen to the storm rising and watch the puffins
struggle against the gale to return to empty nests
now that autumn has come.

They glance at each other, ignoring the wrinkles
and weathered skin, silently confirming their hidden
thoughts— that time has blown away with the tides
though they are still here at the dining table, fingers
almost touching, waiting for winter to force them
under feather quilts where they will warm each other’s
feet and sleep soundly through their long night.






Self-Identity


before me a turquoise sea
with its sandy white fringe
at the feet of sheer cliffs,
almost jade at the transparent
lip of the wave's soft curl
shining under a half moon
that falls into its nightly bed

behind my eyes the shadows
I abandoned at six, sunk so deep
I can't even discern their shape,
so deep that light never reaches
below the gray-green phosphors
sparkling under a morning's
sun like a Milky Way on the water.

I want to be an ocean, calm and slow
to rise, shining like azure glass
unbroken at the edge where the earth
curves on its hip, quiet as a whisper
when it licks the shore hollow
with surf rolling and ebbing--
not desert, where nothing moves.