Back on the Island

The crowd, the glare, the clatter:
Those first hard, fine moments;
A sharpening of loss.

Ashore, heat and clamor. Flushed,
Fumbling, I must pause
To find a light.

Oh, just keep on; walk, head up; just breathe.

Soon enough, I'd soften, slow.

So much the same: eave and gable; summer-hot
Pavement; the souvenir shops.

Not all the oaks still stood, though, along Penacook Avenue.

Near the wharf, I leaned upon a railing
Where a young man had leaned,
That day he judged
Time had come to leave.

Passers-by saw an older man looking toward the sea.

I tried to retrace
That track I followed west,
The one I had thought
So well marked.

Much I believed would matter hadn't,
Though some lines held.

Noon on the island: breezy, cloudless;
I would sunbathe and swim
Until the evening boat arrived.

Heading to the beach,
I noticed a boy
Struggling with his downed kite.

I showed him one way to get it back in the air.