Peter Chapman Poetry


My cove is the blue tongue of the ocean
teasing out the great snails and shiny weed,
slurping the warm rocks, the firs' soft roots,
sometimes the too low sky, floating the gulls and the loons,

this old, engraving psalm of loving and response
coming nearly to my porch, where I sit with cocktail and book,
giddy with the kiss of this wicked coast

cured and burnt, bacon and toast

Duck Cove, summer 2009