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The Marsh-Sea people came into the arms of the bay
where the sand
lolled and grew in piles
under the chalky face,
they glided in
puckered boats
built of black cedar and seaweed,
casting the marsh
under their feet
the mud beneath their fingers.
The intact moon
tickled their dripping, fluid outlines
dipping with the tall reeds,
lacy nets slipping like veils from their shoulders,
grazing delicately
flowing around the sliver-gilded shadows.
A spark ignites
and the
damp night is met with the shout of a bonfire
salty smoke
where earth
meets fire meets water meets air.
The crusty, rubbed bottles
that waved in with the tide
were hung
with string from their piers
and wooden pillars that waded at the marsh
edge,
so that the sun reflections flashing colors in the water
would
hypnotize the fish.
Sand-earth meets fire, glass-makers.
The Marsh-Sea gypsies
played years unknown,
catching in nets
their tumulting joy, lifting delight
sprightly ghost lives in secret.
The fresh water spring passed in their veins
and the silver people pushed
off
silently hidden in caravans.
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