A bracing sea comes on and I revive, plunged in reverie.
At dock’s edge, I grab onto this life preserver to get hauled back on deck.
Son of a fisherman’s daughter raised on choppy
Atlantic succour, I tread the length of a Halifax wharf,
drift between distance, detachment and eyeing
a wallet-stowed picture of her, young, down Port Mouton,
curled up on beach stones, hair windblown, smile broad as the whitecaps.
My boat’s anchor rope billows. I descend from a line of fishers,
caught in a sea-tossed gill net. This womb guts then buoys me.