A poem in our talking

I met with a friend today, and we talked, and talked, and talked. Of estuaries and words, of identity and relationships and what it is to make meaning in Treaty work. Of salt water and fresh, of holding true to the murkiness of an unsettled time.And then I came home and dug out this old poem that I've been carrying around for some ten years now. And I think I may finally have finished the damn thing.Harbour PoemDown where the watertouches rocka heron picksits delicate linebetween the blue and greyof a cleanunfolding day;dipping into the rhythmof its withholding walkwith the soft-footed gracefound inside clocks, the held breathof moonlit hallways, the hesitancewhen rain begins;the hollow as a decision turnsa slow circlein the curve of an unmade moment.Ships slip to portand back, peripheralas the tidewhile you dream of birdsand flight through empty time,your body shedfor feather and air.And laterwith the day worn onand everything still unknownthe sea easesto a washed and lustred green,as old as the stone you holdand turnand turnand turna small anchor in the night.