A year has its ebb and flow of seasons

A greening and browning of the land

A flow and ebb, and where the water stills,

Where salt and silt meet, a place unplanned.

The stillness masks a hum of life, fearsome

Peace that is no peace, where all is food.

This place where waters meet, the saline

And the riverine, is estuary.

A place where brackish men and women

Fill their lungs through woven masks.

A plague surrounds them, a colloquy

Of flood and fire, a fractured economy,

The fault-line of race. All is chance:

An ecotone of life and death unbalanced.

Tom Barber lives (most of the time) in South Boston, where he works as a primary care physician, but he and his wife have long loved the eastern Connecticut shore and now have a home in Niantic, where they spend most weekends and holidays. Originally from Middletown, Barber has published poetry, mainly in medical journals, and he is working on a book of stories about people and places.

The Times is offering local readers a chance to share their poetry amid the ongoing coronavirus pandemic. To contribute, email times@theday.com.