Holy Island
Kevin McLellan

Blades of sun-bleached 
            marram grass in unison 
gauge the cross breeze, 
            the same winds that now
shovel me toward this 
            seal fading unto rocks. 
With chapped lips, I mimic 
            the eiders unlike the way 
I mimicked you.  If only I
            could find the words I need 
most to say.  My wind burnt 
            face.  The sea mist.  The salt.  


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