by Cathy McGuire
I.
At the end of Brigantine Island
a white wood barricade, canted,
paint peeling like birch bark,
marks the end of the road.
My parents stop at the pier window
for ice cream and a smoke.
I look up from poking tar bubbles
to stare at jag-tooth asphalt
thrust over lapping foam
a part of Earth’s crust
crumbling in submission
to dissolution’s sway.
It could swallow me, I think,
as it has swallowed the road
in a fit of madness.
Gulls scavenging the sand
shriek their disdain
for human endings.
Sand drifts over the edge,
carelessly oozing
into heat softened cracks.
I feel the old need
to hold my mother’s hand.
II.
Returning at evening. In the dark
the barricade gleams, pulsing
as the jaundiced Cyclops eye flashes
warning at the foolhardy –
this is the end of the world.
The warm salty air
smells of dead fish and resin.
My father smells of beer.
Inside the moonless tarpaulin
the night drops on the water,
a restless murmur, the ebb and flow
of those who quested too far
chills me through my cotton shirt.
I shiver; she whips out a sweater.
A rasp and flare as he lights a cigarette.
The murmur of their voices threading
through the hum of insects and neon signs.
Walking behind them on the pier,
hearing the sea grumble and
slap tarred poles sullenly,
I search but see only
golden pinpoints, lost souls
pushed about in the seasalt air.
I shiver again, and they turn for home.
****
Catherine McGuire is a writer/artist with a deep concern for our planet's future, with five decades of published poetry, six poetry chapbooks, a full-length poetry book, Elegy for the 21st Century, a SF novel, Lifeline and book of short stories, The Dream Hunt and Other Tales. Find her at www.cathymcguire.com