Arcachon
Ebb tide to sea wave breaks,
headland entrance, bay flow
while the mooring buoys lie
beside their weighted chains,
seas gather,
a grass island rises
for the gull and heron-spear.
A blue pinasse sits in mud,
pine trees, lighthouse, dunes
open to the south,
I close my eyes to the winds,
lips dried by sun, wine soft,
horse swims,
and still the water imponderable.
Shells split by knife, her hands
touch seawater, touch her flesh,
touch my hands,
the sea returns to the low bay
lifting the ships again
in pendulum, in meditation,
the sky lens sounds sea bells.
Author Bio:
John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Least Bittern Books published his second collection, Under the Mountain Born.