SAND CASTLE

She built her castle too close to the sea
and wouldn't listen when we told her so.
All day it grew more intricate and doomed.

She sculpted one sand figure by the door.
It hurt to see that there was only one.
She built her castle far away from me.

The tide came in at moonrise, while she slept.
I went to watch the sea reclaim its own.
She built her castle too close to my heart.


TRACKS

Waves blur our tracks into the trail
of smaller, quicker beasts,
snuffling along the tide line,
fierce eyes alert,
crunching shelled things.

Another wave slows
those quick beasts into shapes
that labor stubbed and gilled,
shuddering at the rasp
of air and sunlight.

Waves smooth the sand
and tug at a shapeless mass
of sea wrack, glistening
with the slick, deep green of kelp
and transparent, pulsing jelly.

There is sundazzle and mist
and the hissing exhalation of waves.
Squinting, breath shortened,
I cannot give a name
to the shapes that come our way.


VIEWPOINT

Some of us do better with the edges
of the big picture, where the background blurs
into green shadow, mosses and sedges.
The path to the viewpoint curves and what lures
us is a glimpse of marsh, a fallen log,
a pair of raucous blackbirds on the wing.
We're drawn to dramas played out in a bog
where meadowlarks broadcast the reign of spring.
A petulant ball of fur scolds everything
that moves; water skippers dimple the pond
above a pod of tadpoles, crickets sing:
it's to this smaller view that I respond.
Mountains sweep as far as the eye can see:
that panorama is too large for me.


A HANDFUL OF WORDS

Your talismans have not proved helpful there
in the dark, lying awake, weaving some
ephemeral jacket of hope to wear
in the hard light of day. Your soul grows numb.
A rattle of pebbles at the window
draws you there to look out at a bright frieze
and find dancing lights, a strange puppet show,
fireflies in a bottle, screen of dark trees,
shadow shapes, coyote with a floppy ear,
a swift dance of silken veils, a campfire,
a storyteller, listeners crouching near.
A handful of words in a sparkling gyre
blown to you through the night, dear distant mark:
a drift of fragrant petals in the dark.


COURTING US

In a house made of bone
we were raised tough as badgers
with a voracious hunger
and a low center of gravity.

We're a clan whose underbelly
is hard to reach
and we target the throat first.
It does no good to wear camouflage

when hunting us: we see perfectly
in shades of brown and green
and cut our teeth
on traps and baits and lures.

The men who come to court us
must bring a proper fee:
spotted ponies, haunches of meat,
the hearts of our enemies.

We are containers who hold
more than you expect,
give with both hands
and take you final and whole.

 

Home

Page 2

Page 3

Page 4

Page 6

Page 7

Page 8

Page 9

Page 10

 

 

© Pat Hathaway