Portsmouth Beach

Portsmouth Beach is cold this time of year
The sea shifts underneath a tintype night
Wind murmurs chilly eddies in my ear
Thoughts of boys who came and left their light.
John, the child, is laughing on a soul whipped bluff
The sound departs from his lips like a ship
Trumpets his youth that he should be enough
To satisfy the wine that spirits sip.
He does not see the souls light on his face
They each lift up a piece of him to keep:
A boy much like they once were in this place
Aching for home, not endless harbor sleep.
Down between the dunes the healer leaps
And settles all the souls that Portsmouth keeps.