(Portland, Maine.)

March

Stones streets smooth as waves wash them.
The shops grow gills as the water rises and the
pine-wild wilderness leans nearer the ocean’s edge.
Entire cities have disappeared this way –
with seagulls supervising the slow advance.
Today, we blink and the water recedes with the vision.
But premonition (or memory) returns with the circling gulls.

_

Part poem-a-month resolution for 2019. Titles are working-titles