Poetry by David Phillips

To Trebetherick Point

I am in the dunes’ mercurial face—
The winds rip, the grains graze
my raw cheeks

I am in the constant tide—
Nip the feet 
of gulls who glide
and scream their speak

The hills I cannot call my home—
Memory weathers and erodes
The view from the peak

When at last I return
you always remain—
The dunes, the tide, the view unchanged,
But not me.

I met the only person officially qualified to inspect car dealerships on PEI
Subtitle: It’s not his primary source of income

He’s a piece of the puzzle
And he is two:
A card dealer by trade
But vets car dealers too

This island’s a hodgepodge
Of kind folks who
Find themselves one job
And are found by a few

Leaving Sandymouth

Brow furrowed, beat by
Crisp blue skies,
Sun-singed chest.

Salt, baked by a late heatwave,
Stiffens my hair and the sheets of seaweed lining the shore:
Pungent, itchy, arid.

Charcoal smoke draws our noses.
Mussels, plucked half an hour ago
Gleam in the murky broth.

Feet burrow for warmth, while we share shivers
Around the hearth: shells, stones, and early stars
Line the mantelpiece.

Sun-kissed cheeks blush with the sunset.
Freckled skin, camouflaged by sand,
Bathes in the waning light—

Reluctant to leave the day
You fish for wind. The last kite rises,
Soon lost in a faded sky.