Like the weathered prow
shattered from some ancient wreck
still proudly straining westward yet
barely clinging
to the mainland

or a great rough shard scraped
off the western flank
of the Long Range Mountains
when they were still young and high.

Home
dear to those souls in
Winterhouses, Lourdes, L'Anse aux Canards
hoping the youngsters will stay
or come back, make it home again.

Else who'll wind the winch
when the few licensed fishing boats come in?
Who'll carry knowing why
old Stephen says 'culp'
but grizzled Ignatius says 'killup'
for the long curling seaweed blackening
on the landwash?
Or bother to learn why Emile's gravestone
is shaped like a fiddle?
Or know what the gov'mnt map calls 'Blue Beach'
has always been 'The Bar.'

But Stephen still knows
without clock
the time to go down to the winch house
and wind Ignatius
in from the sea.