by Barbara Beckwith
Your loud loon-laugh
Lets me hear soft sounds
Bushes washing the harbor’s edge
Insect swarms, oardrip.
Your long body skimming over water
Leads me to see secret shapes in driftwood,
Read meanings into your unseen deep dives
And surprise surfacings.
If by chance
I ever finally see you,
Mid one wild cry, I may lose you,
Your full mad beauty being half mine.
So if you dive deep and don’t come up
Except where I’m not looking,
I won’t mind.
Don’t let me make a poem out of you.
Barbara Beckwith writes essays, journalism, and poetry, often focused on her experiences with nature. She lives in Cambridge but often visits Gloucester, not to fish, sail, or lounge on its beaches, but to allow its slower pace to renew her writing.