I saw him once upon the feathered granite rocks. His leathered soles. Speckled sand mingled with lazy toes and strips
Of slippery, shreds of sea-green kelp. The Eastern Point boy,
Wore a wide-brimmed hat. His eyes in August shade. Blue all ‘round him. At the edge. On the furthest reach of sharp-edged stones,
Extended out into the water as a crook’d arm, flung out in the depths of sleep, and pointed toward the Avery Ledge and the Dry Salvages.
In the lowing sound the ebbing water makes,
I thought him a painter. Browned knees in short white pants. Though without the painter’s gear. His hand,
Raised to his chin. Looking East, gazing into the past. The backs of his calves warmed by the low arc of the western sky that brings the weather and unhurried, unfaltering, future.
Across his shoulders, a faded summer tunic. I think now it was. Though I was on the headlands above. Where the breeze was stronger. His fair hair, damp. Unruffled as
Swells, like harbor seals barely brushing by below the unbroken surface.
Gathering, then, he was, scooping up, reminiscences like shells,
Dropped from a height by grey-tipped gulls. Done with the crabs and mussels they’d excavated. Dead. Drying. Bleached,
Yesterday. Halcyon inferences,
In later scribbled lines: monuments to past disasters remembered only now, fondly.
The thought, when turned in a phrase, an incarnation of sorts,
An annunciation of wonder, of despair,
At what the sea will bring forth or hold back or tear and toss and polish.
Time, the sea monster, he thinks,
Rolls its back against the past, and erodes, consumes, in daily mouthfuls, the approaching years.
How could he not think this, as we who walk this path each day, at the edge of the sea,
And he, an august visitor,
Who would later think to write, how empty and desolate is the sea?
Only then, when he was young, alone upon the great, quarried granite stones, in the haste of August,
Licking ice cream drips off of his strawberried lips.