The sky is a shroud of static silver
that smears an open split of broken earth,
dampening with each push a laden cove
of ancient cliff-rock; the staggered movement
of which casts reflections of dark ether
‘pon the untouched spread of womb-locked inlet.
A sting of salted breeze is blown ’cross a vast
white-capped bay, tide bursting through a squall,
dislodging, lot by lot, what can be seen of day.
In the reach a visage of Signal Hill spasms like a wick
glinting ‘mong the falling ash, blending
colonial brick with washed-out ghosts.
Them: Marconi, Amherst, and us, below,
struck with merrowed chill, waiting, draught in hand
‘round an oak-made cask, for Spring to touch again
the jagged stone walks of Water Street.
