The Barachois*

Here we do not seek the sea,
for it a level presence, beyond
persuasion, cold and articulate
in motion like the sinking
of a dark moon, impossible
to touch, but for the briefest
stroke.

            Instead, we find the lakes,
sun-warmed and glistening, between
the patches of tuckamore and flattened
rocks that radiate yellow light. We
see in their shallows the perfect
melting of form and idea,
the blue-pocked water reflecting
bare, circled suns.

On their banks,
people listen to the sea, distant
by a thought, and wait for the
revelations easiness offers in
the intricacies of warmth. Maybe,
we plunge into its sheltered depths,
translucent water streaming from us,
and shudder at the hints of coolness
below the turquoise surface.

Oracles could have prospered here,
offering scant words for dull coins,
telling us what we feel in words we
can not sound but as the moon
moves predictably across the
foam-pocked, level ocean;
Telling us again and again
that things have meaning,

that we are.


* As the seawater temperature in Newfoundland is forty-five degrees even in high
summer, locals swim in shallow fresh water ponds which are usually within sight
of the sea or sound.


Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.