Red Tin Shed

heading back 

a few tent pegs short

we ditched 

the canvas chairs. 

Last night’s fire

left a moraine of its own:

a charred patch

set in a circle of stones

the rough vowels

of a dry throat;

the hack of the axe

we left behind.

But the red tin shed

makes no sense!

It fits a map 

below the skin,

the calendar

of a less sheltered coast

where slow boats still

recede 

like each day’s

hard actual ice

leaving whalers, 

run-holders, 

botanists

& geologists 

always

heading back