Night Song

Gulls bedded 
on spits
like cobbles,
their silence 
warring,
arguing out
day battles
that were waged
with wings;
who’s to say
it will stop
the mother calling
her child
down the miles of sand?

Down the shores
of sleep, 
a dog barks
in a house.
It’s a beagle.
The other 
dogs grew.
I answered
the other boys’
mothers.
What I can’t 
recall is
who answered mine:
what brother?

If the breeze 
is true,
the gulls on the naked spit
are a waked dog,
belling.
There will be
ever the child,
I was told,
I’ll be telling,
shaking the gate,

protesting,
rocking his pen.
The moon
is a young girl
sleeping.
You can hear
her breathe.

The roused dog
continues
barking.
Gulls shuffle,
waves nudge
the gravel.
Touching.
Why am I not touched?
Waiting for something
that comes,
things I 
can’t recall?

What I have 
to say,
what I haven’t
said,
protesting
a dying child
now dead,
will I ever say
to the gate,
to the miles
of sand
I have come
 to the small waves
breaking?

Gulls can 
raise war
in an instant,
can express on wings
what one mind
in harness
raises.
I can’t.  I can’t .
It is like this:
the beagle
that wets the gate
and the gate 
itself
are uncalled for,

The waves a correlate
pendulum,
is the sand’s 
voice singing.
The cobbled streets,
the streets
go winging off.
light shifts
and seems
a child,
running noonday
dunes
outraces 
night
towards morning.
The moon steps
to the door
in an apron.
I can hear her calling.