The birch crescent passes the sea’s fingertip
into Belfast Bay,
an eddy of pitch pine and flotsam.
The dip and dive calls for snowdrifts,
the mangled gulley choked yearly from
stuffing brush and purple daggers.
Three birches swaying, three birches ebbing
they stand to the east and darken in the west
upon sail, and on a good day, they will break
against seaweed matted boulders.
Within this crux, the land is ruled by tide.
Time is taken by the sea
a day and the next is given by the swell,
hours in the shimmering arc on waves,
minutes by the passing true triangles of ships,
and seconds as the whipping leaves of crab apple trees.
A shore of stone,
of muck and splayed tendrils
from the devil’s head,
the discarded clumps
that seem as masses of dead spiders.
The ones that floated away on the ends on dandelions
when the tide failed them, gentle and calm.
During ever colder nights the moon haloes,
staining a row of crests silver, from
ocean mouth to river head and back again,
the silhouettes of birches mark the current,
and fireflies dot the outline of this scar,
against wanderers and stragglers crossing through pines,
the fishermen try to claim with discarded catches,
captains of four-mast yachts burden the foreground,
and every Webb, Vanderbilt, and Rockefeller
could rob the shore.
I will climb and sit between the birches
and tell that this is my coast and it is beautiful for me.