Whisper Mischief and Taboo
 
Up the beach the row boats line up.
Battered. Overturned. They have names.

​Whisper. Taboo.

The black nailed-on C has dropped off Mischief.
Below, the unpainted outline restores the word.

In the morning the pier posts stand exposed.

There is barely a pier left. Just cross boards
with gaps. But we know what was once there.

Cormorants perch. Muscular birds.
Poised too.

The sky is filling with clouds.

There is perfection in places.

What's left is more than enough.

 

-- ​ [First appeared in Blueline, Volume 41]