The Meridian

Fishers, who mapped Kilrenny steeple
as a marker to direct them at sea, call it St. Irnie
to this day. I can’t bring you back.
My imagination’s not enough. Or maybe

it was lost with you offshore among the rigs,
between domestic and foreign sectors, its beacon
unattended. A loved thing shared and doubled
is in solitude never whole again.

The harbour’s full of sight see day cruisers,
private recreational vessels, a few trawlers left
to cross swords for Talisman Energy’s odd jobs
on their bellies in the mud. When the sea,

even knowing what it knows, dares flood back in here
with whom will I watch flat fish rummaging
in the sediment, the Canadian sport fisherman
in new gear, baiting his hook with a fillet?