Wheeling Gull Isle Bring them home

He breaks in by the morning headland. Probably some homeless guy looking for quiet, or a place to die.

He rummages through the sea plants and finds the old flattened footpaths conserved by a three-legged gait. He strolls through his mother’s lavender garden and drops his feet at his father’s gravesite. He doesn’t look a thing like Judah- but he’s walking Judah’s island, helping himself to Judah’s life.

From secret places low in the dirt, where the columbine thickens and ash roots grow in dense enneads, a pair of ill-matched eyes regard the imposter with contempt, snaking forward every-so-often for a closer look.