Towards Albion
The turn on ME-137E towards Albion,
Takes me away from the suburbs of Waterville,
car dealerships, vacant lots, tossed cups
embellished with golden arches —
splendid tokens of eternal rewards.
Two arches of gold beat the Pearly Gates
in the temporal game of poker.
The turn towards Albion takes me
to an alternate present that resembles the past;
farmyards filled with rusting machines, hay bales,
stacks of black rubber tires.
Stopping on a whim,
off road, on a hilltop,
where a house has reverted to raw material,
bricks and boards loose in a slumped pile.
The nails and mortar have quit, and time
has shifted the unmoored structure.
On the far ridge, across the valley, three giants
slice the air with long blades.
Three wind turbines doing battle against the long odds,
but is it — already — too late?
Ice is melting and surely floods will come.
There are enough boards here to build a fragile vessel.
A fragile vessel for uncertain waters,
an uncertain future guided by quarreling
captains, who would rather the ship go down
than have someone else at the helm.
I am a passenger here, a passer-by,
a quiet witness of small days
where, if a moth lands on lace,
a metaphor is born.
I took a turn and stood
on a hilltop in Albion — who’s ancient name
recalls the white chalk cliffs of Dover.
I summoned up a vision that day,
triggered by an electric shock
from the ruined past,
a deconstructed house.
In my darkest dreams, the turbines no longer turn.
Where farmland in the valley once asserted a claim
against the encroaching forest, water now crashes.
The hills of Albion, have eroded into high cliffs,
from which I look out
onto rising, angry oceans.
