AT FORT FOSTER

At least a dozen shades of gray imbue
The scene: the clouds, the snow, the sands, the wave-surge:
A gamut of pearl to bat-wing. Half-submerged
The blackish clumps of seaweed crouch and slue.

[We’ve] skied to the top of a coastal artillery bunker.
Once a crippled president viewed the port
And caused this hill to be raised to crown Fort
Foster. Today the overfill is a jungle.

Briers drape the sides. A bit of sprawling
Turf is cleared for summer picnics. A lone
Cedar spires from the crest. A herring-bone
Patterns the slope. We watch where a boat is hauling

Its traps. A tanker beyond Whaleback sends
For a tug. The sleety snow is starting again.

(144, January 7, 1994)

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