It’s Just After Dawn When
a person can be overwhelmed
by the shine and glimmer of it all.
Seagulls and terns.
Thistles and grass.
A blue-veined smear of water
rounds on the middle deep,
daybreak lifting and lightening
the water, cliffs scrawled by wind.
And on the ridge above the beach
next to August-hardened dirt road,
brambles tumbled in dust, drying
in the last of the summer sun.
I fill a teacup with blackberries.
They drop hard and solid from lack of rain.