The Salt Makers
[ poetry - february 12 ]
the sea is never forgotten.
Here, in our hands, it hides
in cracks and crevice of skin.
Slowly, we harvest, solidly
as the years pass and wither,
this dust - send it with the wind
to shore, to settle on houses hung
with benevolent faces, watching
the waves. To seep through pavement
stone - a childís hop-skipped game -
where ship, and anchor, and fish
lie in perpetual frozen turn. This,
we harvest, the earthís sweat, or
Portugalís tears - we pile it up,
cold, glistening range of white
tragedy. Like the sailors, we are
always waiting, for tide to draw
its final breath, leaving fine,
crushed bone behind.