When Next I see Appledore #9/30 #2021

 Low tide in Portsmouth

knee deep in the rocky intertidal

warm smell of brine, of fresh-split algae

head down, polarized glasses

searching the bottoms of boulders for the smallest of things.

The waves crash

just far enough away not to disturb the tidepool

something flits, something jumps

I scoop and miss, scoop and almost, 

scoop and there it is

bewildered and alive

I want to text her a picture

the only soul who will know the feeling of this moment

but she is spirit now

I pocket a stone and call it hers.

From here I can see our island

six miles across the bay

the radar tower on the one side

and somewhere on the other the cairn

our rocks surely somewhere in the middle now

And later

on the boat to the island

I lean over the bow in the dark

watch the noctiluca streak along

and the gulls trailing in the hope of a fish.

The salt air warm

and the static sound of spray muffles the grumble 

of diesel

I watch the deckhand lash the boat to the dock

and step off alone

A reception waits in the dining commons

but I head in the other direction

following these paths from memory

weaving between the gull nests 

and the poison ivy

to where the hillside opens

and each step takes muscle and groan

The stone will whisper softly

where in the pile it should rest

It doesn’t take long.

This time I take a picture of her rock

so I will know which one is hers

when I come back

when one day I meet her children

and tell them stories

where at least this detail 

I will recall