1913

“Guarda, Ida, la còsta!”

She imagined, as she had for weeks,

a dun shore breaking through the fog,

a stand of larkspur, houses

on the curling bay.

As wind broke over the gunwales,

a fine low humming.

It was sudden when she came

to rest, the Santa Vincenta, thudding

into dock. The tar-faced lackeys

lowered the chains, seals

popped open, and the ship disgorged

its spindly crates, dark trunks

and children with their weepy frowns.

There were goats and chickens,

litters and a score of coffins

on the wharf at once.

Cold, wet, standing by herself

in the lines of custom

under some grey dome, rain falling

through the broken glass above her,

she could think of nothing

but the hills she knew:

the copper grasses, olives

dropping in the dirt, furze

with its yellow tongues of flower.