Still weeks to ice-out <br />in upcountry lakes. Here <br />on the coast, salt-ice <br /> <br />gets lifted off coves <br />by gales and steep wave- <br />lengths. Tides flow hard <br /> <br />between the mainland <br />and islands. Out in <br />the Thorofare, two fish- <br /> <br />boats, blurred in thin rain, <br />march back and forth like <br />small boys' small toys. <br /> <br />Off Stump Cove, a red boat <br />and yellow boat slowly <br />wallow, dragging the bottom <br /> <br />for scallops. Across <br />old tides, Deer Isle and <br />Little Deer loom tall as <br /> <br />spruce, dark as deer in <br />their winter coats. At <br />the end of whatever day <br /> <br />this still is, a sky <br />like pleated gray silk <br />begins to glint with <br /> <br />thin gold caught behind it: <br />this last day of March <br />or April Fools' first.<br /><br />Philip Booth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/post-equinox-spectra/
