Poem: Morning on the Island

Morn­ing on the Island
–Car­olyn Forché
From The Nation 290:15, 19 April 2010

The lights across the water are the wak­ing city.
The water shim­mers with imag­i­nary fish.
Not far from here lie the bones of conifers
washed from the sea and piled by wind.
Some morn­ings I walk upon them,
bone to bone, as far as the lighthouse.
A strange bee­tle has eat­en most of the trees.
It may have come here on the ships playing
music in the har­bor, or it was always here, a winged
jew­el, but in the past was kept still by the cold
of a win­ter that no longer comes.
There is an owl liv­ing in the firs behind us but he is white,
meant to be mis­tak­en for snow bur­den­ing a bough.
They say he is the only owl remain­ing. I hear him at night
lis­ten­ing for the last of the mice and ask­ing who of no oth­er owl.

Cyn is a proud Mommy & Mémé, professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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