Ragged Island

E D. REEVE

RAGGED ISLAND

Waves pile up on the leeward rocks

like winter leaves around a house

and bed the island down.

Skirted by wind and the soft, sweet talk

of summer (watchfires set out

for warmth after the sun has gone)

the earth gathers the seasons back

to back, then swings them round:

days that seemed short turn long.

The light gives and the dark takes;

ospreys rise toward the bronze-leaved clouds

from the firs above the saltwater pond.

Like wily Odysseus on starboard tack

and young Telemachus outward bound

calling each other home,

we pass through our own shadows. Our wakes

rise from the sea's hollow roar.

The conch shell sings our song.