Large Bad Picture

Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or 
some northerly harbor of Labrador, 
before he became a schoolteacher 
a great-uncle painted a big picture. 

Receding for miles on either side 
into a flushed, still sky 
are overhanging pale blue cliffs 
hundreds of feet high, 

their bases fretted by little arches, 
the entrances to caves 
running in along the level of a bay 
masked by perfect waves. 

On the middle of that quiet floor 
sits a fleet of small black ships, 
square-rigged, sails furled, motionless, 
their spars like burnt match-sticks. 

And high above them, over the tall cliffs’ 
semi-translucent ranks, 
are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds 
hanging in n’s in banks. 

One can hear their crying, crying, 
the only sound there is 
except for occasional sizhine 
as a large aquatic animal breathes. 

In the pink light 
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling, 
round and round and round at the same height 
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling, 

while the ships consider it. 
Apparently they have reached their destination. 
It would be hard to say what brought them there, 
commerce or contemplation.

–Elizabeth Bishop