Diamond Island
© 2002 by PJ Nights

all is flat, spectral - a shore
of two dimensions paved
in skipping stones
perfect to catch an edge of sky

we tread lightly on ancestors
and their leavings -
periwinkles and razor clams,
bits of rubbed glass, all that remains
of Dr. Flint’s Quaker Bitters,
Grandma Rose’s soup tureen

our fingers intertwine to hold
still the hours - freeze
them at the beginning of time
where we lay on our backs,
our love-making done, gazing up
at a spill of milk across lampblack;
last night’s moon was ever more
substantial than this wafer-thin
sun which hangs by a wire

these hours we’d trade only
that domestic sounds from cottages
in precarious perch along the cliff
be ours together:
the rhythmic creak of four-posters
to Saturday morning’s irreverent prayers,
percolators and hissing bacon,
the sharp report of clothes-pinned
sheets in the wind

the Great Skua, robber gull
drops from the clouds to snatch
meals out of others' mouths;
he's too far south and must go home
as must we to our families,
rich but impoverished - limited
by what we can carry on our backs,
our pockets reserved

for stale scones from the B&B,
and skipping stone keepsakes


Tryst Issue II: September 2002 Issue #3

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