Markland. What it became was the usual
Grave-like grassy mounds in a meadow
By the interminably varying, interminably
Similar waves of the rising and falling seas.
Its restoration was careful, close to the bone,
Making allowance for the wider, higher doors
So the Canadian and other senior citizens
Just off their cruise ships could fit through
Comfortably. Even on a summer day,
Tour busses and RVs in the gravel lot,
There was a conspicuous absence of kids
And very few young adults. Dead Vikings
At the end of the world, grassy mounds
And sea fogs in a depauperate cove
Were perhaps not the best inducements
For the young. Once upon a time, sagas
Were fullest of dark magic at their most
Accurate, the vicious gossip of ghosts.
Last night, along the long peninsula,
The combination of twilight, low woods
And curling fogs hiding the dark boulders
Of grazing moose in the wet wildflowers
Made for a scary beautiful drive back
To a safer, uglier world. A woman I knew
Who used to care about the facts of the lost
Cut off any long-distance conversation
About that moment when history, as ever,
Balanced on a change in the weather.
She wanted to talk about her own ambitions,
The life she was busy perfecting each day.
Threatening shadows of blundering moose
Made a good excuse to cut her off in turn,
Or at least to not have to reply. The dead
Have their revenge, not by haunting us, but
By inviting we carelessly living to join them.
The day the invitation is accepted will not be
The decision of the living. The host decides.
"Oh my gad, me darlin,' Oi've gadda
Do sumpthn with my life!" snorted
The helplessly laughing barmaid to the grim
Old customers at the Torrent River Inn when,
The dead fog against the windows, we were
All for the moment somehow safely in.
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