Thomas Bacon, Sitka, Alaska, USA
1
Gathered ravens mock my solitude
of driftwood, abandoned floats and brittle shells,
the rain washing the rain,
as gray light filters green scents
of cedar, spruce and hanging moss
and the wind compels
the tight curl of waves,
the soft sway of kelp.
Mist over the river,
steam from my coffee cup;
I am caught in clouds.
Who I've been
or who I may become—
strong currents of a steep mountain stream
plunge over a precipice, pulled toward the sea.
2
When my daughter died
Spring bruised bright
and blue across the sky.
How quiet,
quiet enough to hear an angel sing,
but turning around
only a thinning cloud
drifts up the hillside,
then fades
as sharp-eyed eagles soar ever near
and frightened gulls swirl up in flight,
confusion hiding the morning rainbow.
3
Weathered derelict washed hard aground
deep inside a rock-bound cove
I watch the shapes of late day sunshine
slip, splash and shimmer
where the rising surf breaks white,
a drift of tangled shadows,
spruce needles and alder leaves
patterned at my feet.
Persistent gusts carry yesterday
deep into the forest of memories
woven in folk truth and myth
as I taste the river salty at the sea,
some sips of sorrow, some
moments of happiness, the eddy's slow twirl
becoming the change of the tide.
Thomas Bacon lives in Sitka, Alaska, a small island community in the Tongass Forest. His work has appeared in San Pedro River Review, borrowed solace, Tidal Echoes, Cirque Journal and The Tiger Moth Review.
