The Thin Blue Line of the Ocean

Christmas, 1999 / No. 3

Last night I dreamed. Dreamed I was Clarissa

instead of Mrs. Ramsay by the sea. I woke several times

to have reflective moments of being

while gazing to the horizon, the horizon of the long flat mattress,

at the thin blue line of the ocean.

Then back to sleep between the pages of sand

left on the beach by the lighthouse. The sunburnt summer days

receding and receding with each sunset. All the while

I’m still Clarissa,

criticized Clarissa, while asleep at my home in the city.

A gale wind blowing in over the edge of the balcony, a fog,

thick with feet, pouring over the railing and cascading

down along the floor, tossing the leaves of house plants yearning

for morning sun and cool fresh air; only to go back to sleep. Each hatch

battened down and only one clay pot cracked to the ground.

Nothing will be lost, all will wake up, so all will be fine.

Go back to sleep, slip between the pages of the book

to the summer-burnt days on the beach where

the heat stays on your skin all through the night.

Christina Winchur lives in Bloordale Village. She is currently working on her first novel. Last updated summer, 2002.