From a 2013 Journal earlier this year.
Seated in the dunes before the sea
With my pen and my point-eared dog
Watching the water drag in the night
The moon shines in the clouds like the eye of a giant, blinking slowly
In roars the wind, seeking gaps in my coat
Whirling in my ears and wrapping cold hands about my fingers
And it speaks to me of art
Of the roaring restlessness of night
My dog is wild with it, roaming
Sure-footed among the dune grasses
Chasing wind-rivers of scent
Standing proud against the sky
There’s no loneliness here, no loss.
There’s the ghost of Bradbury, walking the shore
(like Constance, rising from the waters, dripping moonlight).
There’s the familiar, wise old voice of the sea in my ear
It rains on us, but no agony rises from the water.
Only that, in my chest, a cage has been opened
The doves let free for a while
And at my feet, my red and white dog, ears pricked
Watching, always watching
(I breathe the night)