by Margaret Pritchard Houston

I do not presume to understand
what tides and seasons shaped you, what great voice
has called you into being, nurtured you
and rocked you back and forth towards the moon.

I do not presume – I –
          whose ancestors have forged their restless way
across your depths, have breathed Atlantic air
with salt-strong lips, have settled on your shores,

while in your churning belly, in the dark
have echoed songs of whales, and haunting calls
of dolphins leaping, arced in slickened skin.

I do not presume to comprehend
          the centuries that made you, dug you out
          your bays and harbours, darkened reefs and trenches
          widened you from Pangaea – I do not know
what songs you have whispered to what unknown gods,
what schooners you have buried, or what prayers
the frenzied, grasping sailors cried to you –

I do not presume. To know what’s coming after.
                    To what depths
          your banks will swell and swallow, and
                    what barren shelves
          will line your sounds and trenches.
You are waiting. In crashing slate-grey coils
          for each new wall of ice that shatters in you,
          pours her crystal shards aboard your swaying back.