Life With Horace

poetry & essays



the wind has yet to shift
and racing out toward our spot
and green umbrella shade
I know the grainy sand
will burn until my feet delve down
to meet the remnants of
cool night and seepage
from a moon tide
long fled back toward the deeps

the slap of rope against
the few remaining masts
plays metronome for waves
that curl and thud
against the offshore gusts

quick voices giving way
to silent contemplation
of a prize well earned

small bodies bent to summer work
of finding crabs in shallows
rimmed by treasure rocks
and seaweed drifts

the simple arc of shore
embraces islet archipelagos
that make approach
by keeled or daggered boat
no easy thing

and at the western end
a point of land pokes out
its pines shaped by
prevailing ocean breath

it boasts a solid shingled house
set into skirts of green
downsweeping lawn
and chimneys waving
out to sea
the focus of siesta dreams
I try to live without regret

Day 11. the prompt to closely describe an object or place and finish with an abstract line that seemingly has nothing to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does.