Janet MacFadyen
Race Point
Almost sunset. The earth hangs by a thread.
Now the sun is the sea. Now the dunes are an ocean swell.
There are the whales that turn the crank to spin the world.
There is the moon, with its expression of alarm.
We could get lost, everything so glazed in stillness,
even sound glazed, more tinny and brittle, our cries barely audible.
The dog in the surf is watching its owner walk away.
The surf is flat as a shimmering platter and the dog
is just a speck running in silence then vanishing
behind the point where the lighthouse is.
And we’re walking away, now that it’s dusk and the day moving on,
having forgotten why we came out to begin with.
Having forgotten why we came out to begin with
we’re walking away, now that it’s dusk and the day moving on.
The dog that vanished behind the point where the lighthouse is
is just a speck wagging its tail in silence
in a surf that is flat as a shimmering platter.
The dog is watching its owner walking away.
Sound is glazed, tinny and brittle, our cries barely audible.
We could get lost, everything so glazed in stillness.
There is the moon, with its expression of alarm.
There are the whales that turn the crank to spin the world.
Now the sun is the sea, and the dunes are an ocean swell.
It’s sunset, and the earth hangs by a thread.