By James Lowell
Gust knocks are gathering for a blow
where boats tug at their moorings, gulls
become sea hawks in the upwell. I hold
the suicide knob on my Edson wheel
of my Everglades, heading to my piling so
her bow will ride out the prevailing gale.
The wind runs counter to the velveteen bay.
Hull rivulets sound like a rain-hammered pail.
She is on the dock whistling up a storm.
Miles away, I see the squall lines come.
Jim Lowell is a winter mainlander and summer Cuttyhunk poet whose works have appeared in the Canadian Review of Literature, English, the Caribbean Writer, and elsewhere.
