Sea Trails
"I must go down to
the sea again…"
John Masefield
I board the tiny sloop that has carried me
twice to Maine with its deep
silent harbors and moaning buoys.
I'm ensnared, trapped by increasing
longings to ride that magic carpet
into places different from my own
narrow world of nine to five rewind.
Saltwater rises through my body,
is transformed through its heat
into golden mist. I expand
without Alice's cookies,
become a gull dropping clams
on the rocks to crack them,
a molting lobster, a leaping dolphin,
a man watching the sky from a deserted dock.
The sea is my cradle and it rocks me,
lulling me into new ways of seeing.
My arms unfurl into sails.
I let the wind take me.
Rebirth
Tiller clutched
between knees for steering,
crouched over, eyes scanning the horizon,
I nudge our bow towards the outreached boom.
When the wind finally loosens its grip,
I pull the line fast, hand over hand.
My legs become coils, balancing me
as we slide into the trough.
Today’s wind turns stronger than a trumpet’s wail,
and the boom pauses mid-ship, as if to warn me,
crosses over, until our mainsail strains white
against blue again. A Paul Newman sky.
The head of our little boat is crowning
into Newman’s eyes.
I’ve birthed her hundreds of times
just as she’s birthed me,
but each time is a new time.
Umbilical cut, we move towards the open sea.
Sea Speak
The Chesapeake
opens beneath us,
a woman spreading her skirt wide
to greet the Atlantic, already throbbing
with September winds at her feet.
I learn to lay down a trot line,
haul hungry crabs to the surface, tossing
the lucky red-bellied females back.
I learn that fish gasp in upper Bay
pollution, that sea grass cries,
that watermen chug out at dawn past
clanging buoys and clearing mist
hoping to net their catch for the day.
I learn that heaven is right here
in these blue waters, the upside-down sky,
that the spirits of old sailors walk
on our bow at night, telling lost stories
about Tangier Isle, Shanks, Queens Ridge,
Piney Island. I learn how love
of the sea can rush right through you
with the wind, until your heart is translucent
with joy as intense as pain.
Aftermath:
Thirty Years Later
I remain a child
of the sea,
hobbled now with this illness
that netted me, still hear the sirens
calling and so I rise in the night,
thinking to adjust the anchor line,
make sure the boat hasn't slipped.
I rest my hand on the tiller,
watch the stars swell up in greeting,
feel the tide rock the boat again like a cradle.
I'm grateful I didn't wait, didn't
get stuck with only dreams to console me.
The scent of brine fills the room.
A strand of sea grass appears in my hand.
My sirens' parting gift before daybreak.
About Pris
Campbell
