More from daughter Anna’s summer Vancouver Island journal …
Notes from Ucluelet, May – July 2017 //
The moss hung upon branches like sodden sheepskins clumped green and fat with rain. A solitary church bell summons unsteady sailors through a watery evening mass granting safe passage. Echoed a mile away by a solemn moan. A sound I hear everywhere, from my bed, from the cafes, a calf in the water I imagine.
The waves mount each other. One swells to the left, one to the right, colliding in joyful chaos over dried brown rock, cooked mud under the sun, littered with crispy seaweed.
I meet the queens of my dreams. My eyes have been open a fracture split through rock, squinting through the smog of only the things I know. They put matchsticks between the soft skin and shine torches up into the eaves.
A flaxen girl and a pearl from the ocean. Needn’t be discussed what plagues my…
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