At Victoria Beach
There is a storm
every three years or so:
a bad one, last time, on a night we couldn’t
see the stars from the bed, it took the concrete slab
with the gazebo, pulled it all away overnight.
The giant water reaching up to wrench
the blankets back in fitful dreams.
Like it woke in a story, and found it was a boat,
the hexagonal hive set off into the night,
leaving the land it was
and joined the leagues of things
far-gazed upon in distant winter claws.
The lake makes apologies, in its repentant moods,
in the form of a wide square dock, washed
on the large back of the beach,
or metes out here a lawn chair,
there a canoe,
whatever the dreaming
land feels you are missing.