Then the spare melancholy
of a wharf toward winter: the island
opening the long view South
the wuthering of gunfire on windSafe in this cold anchorage
you can’t hear all the cries
you can’t hear all the gnashing
you can’t hear, can’t hear againThe Island of No is beautiful
grabbing its own to its own
beautiful at cutting the waters
and repeating the patterns, repeatingthe patterns, its blow-hards scraping
the fronds from the crevices under the wharf
toward winter, the waves draining
out to the long view South…The Island, its stealers-away
taking the light by force,
leaves the waves to die
singing of gunfire on wind.
John Stokes
Wharf Toward Winter
1 May 2017