We kick through soft sand by the rain-gray sea,
climb on jagged rocks the color of tea.
Clouds of shell pink disappear
behind a whitewash of swift-moving fog.
A lighthouse beacon flashes
on steep gritty steps carved in the cliff,
picks out the path through tall sighing grasses
which leads to our rented house.
A fog horn’s two-toned signal sounds.
Wind sneaks in under doors
and whistles around the chimney.
The heater grumbles and groans.
We browse through a shelf of old mysteries,
then read to each other from a forgotten Christie.
The cold floor is sugared with sand.
The damp-sheeted bed dips in the middle.
Holding each other
We wake to sun gleaming on twisted evergreen trees,
and dancing across the water.
Gulls screech and dive;
running terns claw-print damp sand.
A rustling pussy willow hedge hides the house next door.
We breakfast on the fieldstone patio
beside terra cotta pots of red geraniums.
We feel our spirits blossom in the warmth of the sun.