Twillingate, 3

The last road down to the water
chained and locked, as if expecting
a line of townsfolk to take their cars,
every fear and frustration, and drive
until the windows hit the sea;

and against the salt-split wall
of the fishing shed, three pairs
of seabird wings, still feathered,
neatly nailed in pairs
to face the sun.

Ward or warning? Impossible
to say for sure who did this,
just that they walk the same
shale beaches you do, looking
for keepsakes;

and in their absence, makes them
with knife and wire and nails,
watching you each morning
in the coffee shop, learning you
take yours black and his with cream.

Julian Day has lived in Vancouver, Saskatoon, and Ottawa; he now lives in Winnipeg. His poems have recently appeared at Juniper and Arc (online), and his reviews at periodicities and Barrelhouse. His debut chapbook is Late Summer Flowers (Anstruther Press, 2021).