I’ve been walking the moon’s bright path over the sea
from Ardmore beach
for too many years.
My notion of the
magical: waves coming ashore
like the game we
played as children,
a hand slapping down
as the one beneath slips away.
The sound of the
waves rounding a headland into the distance;
another time,
another world.
The beacons on the
far shore flashing, as remote, as poignant
as the piping of
waders lost in the pockets of darkness.
Our last night.
And a glittering
moonlit highway through it all,
in dreams we’d
walk it, looking the moon full in the face, laughing,
magnified, colossal,
in all that wilderness.
