I

At high tide, at water's edge, on the pebbles

You load the dinghy only with yourself;

Even the cast iron anchor stays ashore,

The rusty anchor and short chain

Which kept you from drifting off so

Many times before. It is you, the oars

And oarlocks in the dinghy Esperance

II. There are no farewells; they do not

Know you are here on the beach

So early this morning. Only the Black

Dog stares in wonder and barks.

An oar a pole, you shove off, untangled,

Blear eyes fixed on the Mainland,

The tow rope pointed toward Heart Island.

The wake divides in two behind

And sends into eddies the sparkles

Of the sun, facets of the sea jewel,

Deep water afloat with green seaweed,

Yellowing in the dazzling light.

The journey is not far: at a league

A school of mackerel, sudden, crowds

About the boat, leaping toward

Some other destination. Starboard

The dinghy tips with your weight

As you bend and glance toward

The Heart Island littoral.

It is noon

Of the summer of your life. You land

On Heartbreak Beach, the shingle,

It seems, littered with photographs

Of all the men and women you once

Thought beautiful -- a gust, oh,

Sweeps these little snapshots,

Fluttering, into the swell of the sea.

The gulls cry above the mussels

While you recite to the starfish

A secular litany of renunciation.

II

Up beach, on the embankment

With root and rock handholds

You hoist yourself onto a path

Into loose stands of spruce

Where bunchberry and reindeer

Lichen clump around the trunks

Of young hemlocks and old birch,

Nursery and graveyard.

Down a slope

You behold a Forest Temple,

A hole to the sky, saplings

Surround, and, at the center,

Careless on the ground, the detritus

Of a Great White Pine, limbs

And stump covered with Old Man's

Beard and Artist's Conk: a lesson

In mortality. You understand

That. You understand that

The Spirit of a Red Man

Presides here, that he has spoken

About sorrow, about loss.

Then a late summer breeze

Rustling the wildwood, hastens

You on, toward a clearing.

III

The clearing: all before you lie

A field of wild flowers, a slope

Down to cliffs pitching into

The Sea, and, further off, eight

Thousand miles away, the coasts

Of Terrae Incognitae.

Unknown too,

You catalog the flowers: Seaside

And Plume Goldenrod, Pickerelweed,

The Meadowsweet, Hardhack, the

Wrinkled Rugosa Rose, Aster, Orange

Indian Paintbrush, Strawberries, Fern,

Thyme, Oxeye Daisies -- weeds

Born millions of years ago. You are

A guest here, your line, newcomers;

But their age nothing to the age

Of the light that warms them.

You sit on the granite cliff

While the setting sun describes

A grand spectrophotometric curve:

Orange, Yellow, Red on Orange

Orange, Wine, Grey on Plum -Yellow

and Violet on Rose --

Green and Tangerine on Red --

Red and Pink on Pink -- Four

Reds -- Black on Dark Maroon --Black

on Grey -- Black on Grey,

Venus, solo, glittering in the sky,

Her stream rippling in the Bay.

And, then, the stars. Away

From city lights, in the North

North, the bright Milky Way, the right

Arm of the galaxy, tells you

Who you are -- The Astronomer,

Laplace said. Awe, wonder;

Mysteries, lost and safe

In the bosom of the universe

Where you could go to sleep.