A motorboat’s propellor chops like a machete across the tide
sending a swift, breaking wave to the shore. I walk slowly
over rocks that are scored, overhung by a low, acned cliff.
In one of the rockpools an octopus stretches away
like a kitchen glove pulled from a hand. Soon dusk will arrive
with its shadows and mood lighting, but I’ll stay and walk
to the jetty’s end where a few fishermen compete for fish –
hauling them in or tossing the small ones back like tarnished cutlery.
I remember our last visit here – we hid a special stone
under the pier, gave it potency with our thanks and blessings,
our hopes for the future. I can still see you on the sand
looking for the right stone, grey and anonymous until
you gathered it up in the evening light and found the words
to turn it into a talisman. Now, a darter takes flight
like a vapor trail, and I wonder what we might have done
that day had we known time would be a snakebird drowning
its wings. We might have put a feather under the wharf
and watched the tide carry it onto the blister-lines of foam.
I wonder if it’s still there, our wish-bearing stone, or has
the water’s drag taken it elsewhere. It wouldn’t be right to look.
It would be like riddling the past with unanswerable questions,
entrusting our hopes to different prayers ... Still, I mourn
you dear friend. You would have loved the eagle flying
overhead: its circles of flight – ripples from a well-laid stone.