2/24/2013
The masts, vigilant
as bare winter trees,
anchor the base of the bridge
where it rises, bowed and becoming,
from Beverly to Salem.
Snowflakes scatter
along the pavement.
To the east, the gaudy dome
of a natural gas repository
squats awkwardly among
dormant sailboats and trawlers.
To the west, the railroad runs
alongside the bridge like
a tag-along younger brother,
eager and impatient to be off.
Gulls wheel, cormorants bob,
empty docks rise and fall with the
tides.
At low tide, men and women
encased in rubber to their chests
stride along the muddy bay floor,
buckets and shovels in hand:
clamming.
All this glimpsed
in a moment of paradox:
concrete in air above sea.
Then down the graceful curve
into Salem and the embrace
of civilization.
Posts
