Point Road
by Timothy Lea

If you could sprout wings and take flight along the edge of where the ocean meets the Island, your skin slicing through the air unencumbered by the walls of a plane or the cradle of a boat, then you could hear the sounds that feed time's unquenchable hunger. The racing of angry winter wind unleashing its pain in screams against the sides of creaking buildings. The welcome crash of ice floes tumbling over themselves into the sea as spring releases winter's grip on the air. The pungent red mud oozing back to life after months of dormancy. The fragile sandstone falling like miniature landslides everytime your feet and hands grappled down the bank to the shore. The persistent turn of the lighthouse lamp as it cuts though the mist and wind. The crunch of boots against the frozen crystals of winter. The mournful moan of a buoy miles off land rolling in the wind and toss. The smell of biscuits and roast chickens from the oven mixed with the turbid sickness of wet dishcloths hanging off the kitchen tap. A countless cloud of words spoken in anger, joy, caution and haste and the faces that drew the words in, making room by forming wrinkles filled with both worry and glee.

Timothy Lea is sick with the flu in Halifax, N.S.




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POINT ROAD
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