The last time I came, there were fisherfolk here and nets,
the smell of fish, fresh and drying.
It was Summer. It would have been Summer.
I watched the red lobster pots being tossed from small boats.
I came out of the sea, a harvest of kelp draped across my back,
salt encrusting my lizard skin as the water dried.
I had not drowned as the legend said.
Why should I have done?
I have the lung capacity of a whale.
I had spent years upon years laid out on the icebergs, waiting for death.
It did not come. Why should it?
A life force like mine would see death itself perish.
So I knew I would find my way home.
Only I was weak after so many decades of the cold and the white.
I gorged myself on turtles and sea lions and bears
before submitting to the womby waves.
I followed the silver lightship through the sea's midnight,
an ocean of memories spun out before and behind
leading me to this one beach.
Here once, long ago, we scribbled and scrabbled,
two rabbly creatures,
birthed, then cribbed, then torn apart.