Edge of mystery

When I was young,
I lived on an island
spent my days alone on a small boat
fishing for lobsters
tending traps set round the shores and ledges
chasing waves across the restless sea
gauging time by wind and tide
silence for company.

When the storms came up out of the east,
I worked ashore in a low roofed shop
painting buoys
patching gear
mouth full of nails
rusted hammer or brush in hand
mesh needle and a ball of twine
bits of old tires to cut out hinges
coils of trap warp measured in fathoms
an old radio perched on a shelf
a scrap of tinfoil for an antennae
work until light or ambition faded.

Then I’d walk out to the head of the island
where the bare granite meets the open sea
surly and dark under the mantle of cloud
lit gold where the sun broke through
watch waves rise up, towering
flung back manes of spray where they crest
feel the thunder of them breaking on the ledges
the long mutter and grumble as they coursed back through boulder and slab.

Until light faded and shadows gathered
Turning the tumbled blocks of stone to monuments
making strange the familiar forest path
I hurried home then to light lamp and fire
home to read in a rocking chair, stocking feet propped by the chimney pipe.

Later, called by the glitter of stars,
I walked out in the night to where the old town road curved down the hill
Looked out on the spread of islands
dark and unknowable in the shimmer of the moon bright sea
sharp etched shadow patterns rippling across the open field
old houses looking out for boats that’d never return
forest, stiff as the raised hackles on a dog’s back
behind me I felt the light from my lamp,
turned down low,
one barely yellow window in an ocean of night
hardly a beacon
but enough to beckon me home,
call me back from the edge of mystery