Tenant’s Harbour, ME, revisited
by R A Ruadh

As kids we hunted clams
seeking out pinholes in the sand
squirting tiny spouts of alarm
at our not so quiet footfalls

The beach was a magic place
wrapped in fog and bordered by
disappearances of trees
tangling roots on barnacled rocks
rising from soft lappings of low tide

The salty greenish scents
of kelp and bladderwrack
wound up the path
reaching into our windows to waken us
with promises of sand dollars
driftwood and sea glass

All it takes is the cry of a gull
a hint of mudflats in the air yesterday
when a breeze blew in from the bay
and I am once more a mighty sea hunter
armed with clam rake and bucket
digging for dinner and treasure
in the salty seabeds of summer



 

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