On the island always was a magick, fog
and second magick, sea. Both obscured
island from world, prevented
commerce to and fro betimes,
fog by quiet enwrapment,
sea by tumult of tempest,
two powers equal to bewilder.
A May Day fog, no one could wing
to, a traveler could not fly fro
so stayed, reluctant: cats awaited
while on unexpected May Day
on an island unanticipated were feasts,
dark brew, rare meats, lobster and tarragon
in one day of as many hours in dilation
as made a difference, made a rapt traveler
grow a smile that stayed through
lift of magick that freed
travelers to squeeze through weather
window to bone rattling earth
journeys to what awaited.
But smile stayed.
And life changed.
— Frances Huggard Migliaccio