Ellis Island

We grip the frozen handrail of the ferry,
watch the waters churn their silver song.

The seagulls teach their young to ride
the wind, hover at head-height, hoping

for scraps, catching them in flight, tasting
anticipation in this welcome-harbour’s air.

Now just us tourists, seeing once-removed
through camera’s lens, knowing how memory

can trick and lie. But every immigrant is here
behind our eyes, dressed in their desperation

and their optimism; watching the raised arm
of liberty (her face the sculptor’s mother’s –

who better to open the door to this new home?)
They search the faces for a hint of those left behind:

see how she flicks her hair, the set of his
shoulders, tap of her fingers, curve of his head.

The boat hull bumps and tears at wooden piers
of Ellis Island, they clutch the rails, fling

their old life to the tide, climb gang-plank
to a land which seems to roll and heave,

lift ashore their bundled clothes and words
the recipes and songs, tucking them close

as gold coins sewn into the hems of petticoats
wrapped with memories like an old woollen shawl.