The Bay At Night by Selena Martens

Look, there’s nothing now

just the sound of the clock turning over

and the creature’s mournful call

across the bay.

In the black gloom, 

we emerge from the cabin,

a shawl draped over my shoulders,

the pine forest shielding us from the stars

our bare feet slap on the rocky shore,

where glaciers once broke the Earth’s skin open.

The lapping of the waves is quiet,

as though the elements lie in wait

the air off the water lifts a single strand of my hair,

invisible fingers run over my cheeks

miles out, the creature lows

he is the size of one of our small islands

shoulders of turf and hard scraggly growth,

prickly bracken, and burs, and needles

sprout from his back

and deep-set eyes burn like distant campfires

he moves so sluggishly

the waves grow thick and ponderous,

rolling in the night, breaking on my legs

the rocks are slippery

your hand tugs the hem of my shawl

and it falls away

but I don’t stop and your voice is afraid

to crawl up your neck

in the night, in the quiet, on the

edge of a round bay like a bowl,

cradled by rocks and pines

our secret creature.

Selena Martens is a Canadian speculative fiction author and poet. She grew up in Northern Ontario, on the shores of Georgian Bay.