PETER DAVISON
Seaside Summer Quarry
While a waterWy shivers and
shrugs its shadow across
a green platter of leaf,
two water striders caper across
their liquid runway to mount
the next Wypad,
surmounting a dark-brown tea-steeped
dangerous depth
of water.
Bared grani te rocks,
sentried by sabres of iris,
jut up
from soft starry beds of
emerald moss, their harsh hide
scarified wi th gray
and green lichens. The dull leaves
of pas t seasons lie low
in crevices. From the high sky
gold strands of sunlight thread
through the hemlocks.
Over my shoulder, fishboat diesels
thrum their dark discord
agains t the snarl of a
small plane, while,
flap! and crack! in a freshening
breeze, sloop-sails
make good their getaway.
