day of least light. wolf
and grizzly nuzzling lonely
winter. granite coast, eroding
faces. islands of moss. whirl
of sour salt. fog drizzling
from cedar boughs. mountains bent
low, shivering. our city in the
yawn of valley, we will survive
if she allows. if the storms
of dark noon, and a sunken sun.
swells rising to revenge, rain
biting the twisted spine of west
wind. naked lampposts. curb
and rhododendron, grey, sullen
grey, eclipse of window and wheel,
a tempest that will remember
nothing. we are at war. we will
eviscerate the names of our neighbours.
at the river's swirl, and earth's
open belly, a bed of black leaves.
would could wake on this day of
least light? a wilderness is born.
a beast stumbles from surf,
gasping for air, webbed, malformed.
a raven's dark eye. a spiral
of gulls. an orca's fluke
in the dive of crimson ocean.
© Robert Martens