STATION SEVEN

VII

A weakening wind has swung to the west
and wild roses that opened just this morning
wet with last night’s showers
sway as if they are pleasantly drunk
scattering their paper thin petals
on the rumbled sand paths
like devotees of the rain gods.

Endless dark swells approach slowly
full of great caution
a lone breaker whitens far off shore
then I hear the flat exhale of it’s collapse 
the two are siblings separated by a second
like lightening and thunder

A fishing vessel
it’s arms outstretched like 
Jesus on the mountaintop
trawls silently in widening transits
then at once
comes the leaden hollow echo
of gear hitting a rusted hull
engine rumbling
the voices of fishermen
sounds reaching out to me
like ghosts in the distance.