Crescent Beach
Circa 1955
by Cheryl Wehr

I am a memory

Rising like the incoming tide

I chase the seaweed in your wake

erasing the lines you made today at low tide

on your way to tomorrow.

I am a stink, a place

cold water and barnacles on bare feet

I am a throb of crab boats

pushing their way past the pier to the

crab pots at the crack of dawn,

I am the pulse of the world,

I am a tarpaper shack with

two windows and one door, a wood stove and

army bunk beds

with curtains between for privacy

Lying in bed I watch the light pass through these curtains

and I see clouds and castles in the sky.

I am the small green apples

concealed in your pockets

As you pass with all innocence

down the narrow shaded path

By Mrs. White's house;

I am the strong and supple vine maple

from which you swing with joy

as you wait to drop down

and join the others on the ground;

I am at the gatherings of youth

by Dennis' greasy spoon restaurant,

eating fish and chips under a streetlight

overlooking a dark sea.

I am a gull's wing

soaring over a house that

once was yours;

gliding over the bluff

where the shadow of a girl stands

Captain of the universe, as she looks over the tidal flats

scanning the horizon.

She is

Montcalm on the brink of the Plains of Abraham

viewing the St Laurence;

Queen Boediceia watching from a great height

the battle of the waves;

and Juan de Fuca in a Spanish galleon

battling the stormy seas.

Transformed by the salty air

She is at once both native of the Danelaw

examining the horizon

for tell-tale signs of a distant sail,

and Musqueam slave-wife dressed in cedar

anticipating a rich harvest

of clams and fresh goeducks

at the tides turning

I am the river

a refuge for wild birds and other creatures

as I meander through the valley

on my way to

the bay.

I am sculpin, crab, a creeping thing

waiting in the seaweed

with one eye fixed on a green sun

listening as you pick your way

carefully through a tangle of seaweed

while I wait for an opportunity to scuttle over your foot,

waiting for the expectant shriek

making you walk just

a little bit faster.

I am liquid honey flowing down

around the dandelion days of slanting sunlight

freckling down the early hollows

spilling warm upon the dew

sliding over and under the green years

to where we curled loose afternoons

around easy fingers

suspended in a timeless turning

of sand and salt and sea.

I am your memory.

Under the seaweed I lurk,

hoping to trick you

to pinch you in unexpected places,

as you pass by

on your way to tomorrow.