Dusk
along the lane
only foundations remained
we traced them with our feet
stumbling occasionally
I stood inside one
he – just outside the one next door
for one moment
music lingered on the warm humid breeze
in September of 1941
there was no carnage
The old runway
evoked pre-dawn mornings
the palpable drone of engines
the smell of aircraft fuel
Ford Island
lay in the protected womb of Pearl Harbor
At the café overlooking the valley (and the next perched village) locals sit and drink – ask a stranger among them, ‘Why are you here? No one comes to this place even if they know it exists – why are you here?’ Navigating narrow passages (cobbles uneven under foot and slippery when wet) steadied by…
How far? I ask (is the ocean) whenever we are somewhere the ocean is not – often comes the reply “not far..” (Perhaps a few hour’s or a day’s drive) ‘Not far’ is a distance measured on the scent of a breeze something palpable in the atmosphere in fog rolling across the land ‘Not far’…
Against the antique oak rocker in the alcove leans a needlepoint begun decades ago (18th century American primitive re-created in my hand and style with woolen yarns and carefully selected stitches) Cart roads lead from the ‘big’ house, past out buildings and wild vines heavy with grapes (Norton?) – down at the river, a sailing…
Washington Idaho Montana nothing in every direction. we play with the cats for diversion passing them between our two-car caravan Wyoming breakfast at the Harley and Cowboy truck stop complete with petting zoo buffalo Dakota plains undulate and stretch forever creeping into my consciousness I watch them for a long time – young Indian boys…
Je vois une femme mais, I cannot see what she sees (sitting alone dans le jardin)…
Painted navy gray lifeboat oars, copper straps binding battered tips…