October 20, 2017
Photo by Heather Ferguson
A Poem by Jack Wesdorp
You know how much sand gets shuffled around
on an average day in September?
Enough of the stuff to bury this town
and way more than god can remember.
Horrendous amounts in the rip offshore,
a steady slip-streaming cataract
that gouges ravines in the ocean floor,
artisans peaked hills, and then moves it back.
Careful guardian autumn minds the shop.
Feminine breath overspreads the land
insinuating her body downslope
with rivulets of fine powder sand.
On Herring Cove it sorts itself out.
Waves laugh when they’re playing with pebbles,
the hem of her gown is always crowded,
gems on an average September day.