The green wake pulls
Spinning the island away.
The engine keens
For the dwindling hyphen
Of land under its weight of cloud.
I do not keen for the island,
Though friends were kind
My heart lay stubborn
Under a heaviness
They could not lift.
I stand under
An aerial wake of gulls
Watching the green track
Spinning the island away
Under its weight of cloud.
© The Estate of Dorothy Cowlin 2009–2021. All rights reserved.