The Salt Coast Sages Maine Poets

                                                                                 Fog Trip

                                                      He stood alone
                                                      in his old dory,
                                                      alone in thick fog
                                                      out of sight of land.
                                                      Wrapped in cold and dampness
                                                      he felt strangely at ease.
                                                      He shipped his oars,
                                                      stood feeling the gentle
                                                      rise and fall of the swells,
                                                      listened, listened
                                                      for what he couldn't see.
                                                      At first there was nothing.
                                                      He felt suspended
                                                      in a grey, wet void -
                                                      not even a bright spot
                                                      for locating the sun.
                                                      Briefly disoriented,
                                                      he sat down on the cold,
                                                      damp middle thwart.
                                                      The slight shock
                                                      renewed his senses,
                                                      he heard the cries of terns.
                                                      Green Ledge, he thought,
                                                      way off ahead.
                                                      Barely audible to port
                                                      sounded the slap and splash
                                                      of a wave on ledge.
                                                      Point of Main. I'm not
                                                      so far out as I thought.
                                                      He stood, leaned right,
                                                      cupped hands behind ears,
                                                      listened hard again.
                                                      A crow's caw, faint rush
                                                      and hiss of wave on sand,
                                                      Hickey Island, alright.
                                                      He straightened, stood
                                                      queitly for long minutes,
                                                      unshipped the oars,
                                                      reversed the dory's course,
                                                      rowed with strong,
                                                      but intermittent strokes
                                                      contentedly back
                                                      to the pier from which
                                                      he'd come.

With sadness and love, the remaining Salt Coast Sages wrote the following in honor of Phil:

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Homecoming

As we rounded Cross Island

and set a course for

Starboard Cove

The wind fell to four knots

and a long, gentle swell

replaced the chop

He stepped back, shrugged

his shoulders to ease

the strain, mopped his brow,

then turned with a smile to us

and said: "Take the wheel".

—Donald Crane

In Memoriam

For Phil

The great sea always seemed to tug,

high tide reaching beyond the edge

of the beach, then bursting over a crag,

beckoning as you looked out from your ledge.

O for that fine new boat you wanted,

always the sailor, eager to be

afloat with a following wind, undaunted

by the open, boundless sea.

Let us remember you that way,

raising your sail to the breeze and the sun

and the glittering water and salt spray,

another voyage begun.

—Gerald George

Phil

May 11, 2011

Daybreak riffled a golden arm

across the bay to Rose Ledge.

We thought to see you in September

loping to Senior College poetry class,

a Downeast story printer-warm

in the faded bag tucked under one arm,

or in July arranging tables and books

for Festival Day at Roque Bluffs.

We thought to chat with you tomorrow

in the corner booth at Helen’s

hatchmarks of cat hair caught on your sweater,

platter with home fries, toast, slab of ham, eggs,

waffle on the side.

Twilight shadows altered our vision,

blackened all expectations;

we became wide-eyed owls

alert to the voice in your legends,

staring at your image

wherever a golden labrador lies.

—Grace Sheridan

Sea Light

for Phil Rose & the Salt Coast Sages

I built my house at the end of the road

high on a headland facing the bay

set squarely on rock and ledge,

some day I’ll finish

details and doorways

in shelter of my seaworthy roof and tall windows.

After poetry in town,

the Captain drives off to Starboard

through tunnels of green and macadam.

He parks in dark woods

and walks his worn path

up and stony up

to his house with no lights.

He sees by sea light

risen like fog—but not fog

into eyes trained

for life beside the sea.

Sea light fills the Captain’s house

and guides his hand to match and candle

for the night’s last sit and write—

a new poem with notes

on details and doorways

to finish tomorrow.

—Sharon Bray