The three of us walking

The wet sand between

Two states of being-

Between the low water

And the high, between

The living and the dead

Between what happened

And what might have

Our shadows lengthening

Behind us like

Incomplete sentences

On the margin of

The visible world

My mother pointing

To where the ships

Had once been

My father humming

The old tune about

The bogland man

And myself between

Their voices like

A hyphen trying

To join two worlds

That kept moving

Apart with each

Incoming tide