Was a Time We Remembered

At low tide

Out on mud flats

The pilings stand

Old men weathered

By the hard winters

Faces all checked

Suffering the sea 

Backs bent

White pates

Washed with shit

Of a thousand gulls

Tell their only economy

Sometimes a blue heron

Rests a spindled leg

Scanning the beach

For a lean meal

Were they once

Markers of seabeds?

Or fences to catch logs

Floated down the river

Bound for the sawmill?

Perhaps once gill nets

Hung between them

Trapping steelhead

Was a time

We remembered

Why we were here

Now we’ve forgotten

Soon we will be gone

Veterans of the tides

Relentless currents

Swallowing silt


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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