BY ELIZABETH SOUTHWOOD
We kick through soft sand by the rain-gray sea,
climb on jagged rocks the color of tea.
Streaks of shell pink disappear
behind a whitewash of swift-moving fog.
A fog horn’s two-toned signal sounds.
A lighthouse beacon flashes
on steep gritty steps carved in a cliff,
picks out the path through tall sighing grasses
which leads to our rented house.
Sand feels gritty on the floors.
Wind sneaks in around warped doors,
and whistles down the chimney.
We browse through a shelf of old mysteries,
then read to each other from a forgotten Christie.
We sleep in a heap in the dip in the middle of the bed,
and wake to sunlight gleaming on twisted evergreen trees,
and sparkling on the waves as they dance across the water.
A rustling pussy willow hedge hides the house next door.
We breakfast outside beside white pots of deep rose geraniums,
soothed by the heartbeat of ocean, the blue, Pacific sky,
the screeching of gulls and softly pummeling ocean air,
content because we have a week to be together there.