editorial feature
Call of the DUNES
Last Testament Gather driftwood for my funeral fire Along the wild backshore. Salt-silvered wood Pile it high as the sun goes down. But if you crave A piece of complex curve or textured plane. Take it. Keep it. I shall not mind; I’d do the same Light the fragrant sticks, the plank with barnacles And Seaweed clinging to its thighs. Let them flare up As sun dips into water’s hush. And if your gaze Stray from the burning place to sunflames On scalloped edge of beach, don’t feel contrite Enjoy the brief bright glory: so would I. Night will be long. Firewood. Is there wood enough? Gather more as the dunes smolder, ash violet in the haze Lay on more wood for my wish is that the fire Burn through the night. But should you pause while gathering To watch the tern’s curved flight, don’t be abashed Those lovely arcs would stop me too, if I were you. The tide will pulse. There’ll be no moon. My fire Will keep you warm until the stars snuff out. Then let the flame die down and as the sky grows soft Toss off your clothes and swim my morning swim for me. You’ll want to shout a day spring shout, defiant as you emerge Don’t hold it back for me. Exult! Run naked, glad, along the polished wet packed sand And give the burning place no glance. Or rather, do. You built it on the steep-sloped shore Below high water mark, I hope. Then-look. The waves have washed it clean. And now, forget. — Jan Gelb, 1978
84 | provincetownartguide.com