Partygoers reluctant to depart.

Last stragglers of the colony line

the turf below the lighthouse.

The engine’s cut; August

wind chills faces. Some still

clump in, puttering outboard

motors frantically clattering

over us and terns on the rocks.

 

Wintering on the ocean,

returning with sand eel cargos.

The chicks spend years at sea.

What makes us think of them

as doleful, painted clowns,

our island trip an end-of-pier show?

You’re lucky to see them, the boatman says.

By rights they should be gone.