From the copse, the path climbed towards the road beside the farm.
Grass brushed his fingers, his steel bucket sloshed with clams
and sea water. All afternoon, he’d dug in the soupy charcoal sand,
while across the Bay the firs towered black against the clear
winter sky, and the tide, cold and quiet, crept towards his
bridge of sand and shells.
*
Wet socks wound along the post and wire fence, and out in the field
The paint-peeled barn sagged, alone. By sunburnt hands the last bale
long since removed, straw compost scattered the mud floor, heavy beams
breathed clear lines of light, before the rain again would wash through
gaping, glassless windows.
*
The path disappeared into the darkening forest, and on the
other side the cabin glowed, with children at the dining table, puzzle
pieces dropping to the floor, red wine tumbling in crystal–but first,
a rise in the earth, a break in the trees, he switched the bucket
from hand-to-hand, as the barn, wrapt and silent, slowly receded,
and the sea fell to cobalt in the February dusk.