MONHEGAN CACHED

The island is always there, imprinted,
a fluid, moving backdrop for the planned
and daily gestures enacted before it.

Miles from the coast, Port Clyde,
the Elizabeth Ann, and the ever-changing sea,
I read and reread poems written by acolytes
who are there in its strong embrace.
Their literate, graphic pictures catch in my throat
with recognition as the words
fuse together in focused images–

And–I turn to the pictures themselves:
they repeat the loving descriptions that I
not only remember, but wrote about.
My legal pad, fountain pen, and I,
tied to the shore, immerse ourselves
into our communal, esoteric passion.
We write about distinct well-worn shadows.

Gus Bombard