Turkey Island - the lost consonant

Turkey Island - where houses are drawn up and moored.

The Lost Consonant

Turkey Island rises from the

Grass, green as, curled in common

with a fathomless sea.

Tall tales sail at night, bearing tidings.

Held below the waterline, Turkish

prisoners wait, weary from war.

On their walk to Christmas Fairs,

the turkeys drink in the long grass,

Cool water and clear held in

by the sound down tracks that sweep to a hard

where houses are drawn up and moored.

Grass rustles as language, rising in high summer tides.

Under August moons,

people wade through the common, see -

waist high, feet clutching the unseen or surfing

for the distant shoreline of trees.

Roots holding onto earth; fighting the grasses surging

fluid boundaries: 

Horses fling through the

waves that sigh at night,

whispering of seafaring birds,

Turkey Island lies in stories’ lunar sea.