Gravel path separates sea
and beach houses – enticing castles
with great glass vistas, rustic arbors
porticos of stone sheltering lazy loungers,
chairs in conversation.
Protected by moats – gardens,
outlined in stone, brick, white picket,
brown cedar, rounded shrubs smooth as shaved heads,
filled with green velvet and planters spilling
daffodils, pansies, sprays of giddy forsythia,
tulip faces of flame pressed open against the sun.
On the path humanity
power walks, arms pumping
and ambles, holding hands,
struts and strolls,
pedals and rolls.
The old shuffle, the new
totter, the absent-minded mutter
while dogs bark and wag, zig and zag.
Plank walls partition the beach.
At low tide their water-ends glow emerald
in a glassy setting.
Pebbled, seaweedy sand is strewn
with forest bones and gargoyle driftwood
bleaching in the sun.
The world fades as I recline against a log,
bathe in lemony sunshine,
luxuriate in the sea-fresh breeze,
serenaded by the delicate slosh of waves
that ripple and relax
onto the shore.
A million silver threads
sparkle through a gray lamé sea.
Somewhere across the bay a motor hums.
A seagull calls an echoing yodel.