at blue water’s edge

I hadn’t dressed,
warmly, for the walk 
along the blue water’s edge,

having mistaken   
the silver glints across my windows 
for gleams of sun – 

and so,   
cold ghostly clawing fingers
wind wrapped 
around my throat

and I braced

for the icy shivers,
of each eerie mean sea gust:  

until, my mind rested

on the greatness of the brumal depth

and I slipped beyond myself  –   
moved:  by the profundity of that moment.
 

note:  published:  Verse Afire (Ontario Poetry Society) May-Aug. 2014 Edition. 

photo:  Blue Water's Edge (the marina at the entrance to Stanley Park off Georgia) - W. Bourke

© 2014 Wendy Bourke