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AN ISLANDER REMEMBERS THE SEA
By JACQUELINE MEZEC

Away from the sea she's finding
she can't quite live without
its rhythm of beginnings and endings
like a lullaby cradling her.
She misses speaking French like that too
an undercurrent which she never noticed
but that swam under everything.
And she remembers how the murkiest weather
was the best frame for the sea
when clouds dropped and sky dissolved
and briefly she felt heroic
hunching into the wind
scuttling along the shoreline like a crab
searching for treasures thrown up by the storm
a bottle perhaps from the Caribbean
sculpted driftwood, blue china, bone.
She misses being where everything
is rounded, pebble-shaped
as she daydreams beside a basket of dried vraic
in an empty flat
well above the high tide mark.
Sometimes traffic murmurs to her like the sea
and she wonders when the tide will turn.