A Remote Refuge
A calm morning with the nippiest breeze of October,
the moss-covered rocks shed the surf:
as it is thrown back into the tumultuous surge,
and on the glimmering and soggy sand...
the writhing shellfishes won't survive without the salty water;
they will helplessly hang on life, only to perish on land!
With wool gloves and cap I'm still cold,
and still my skin is exposed to sunburn;
a motorboat crosses the hazy horizon,
emitting a sharp blast from its noise horn,
but the silent sea-gulls lack the urge to flutter away,
there in throngs they fight off the chilly day!
Sullen as a turbid ocean, I tumble down the soaked dunes,
slammed hard by a ferocious wind not offering solace;
I swirl in agitation reaching for my warm cap,
which gently lands into an abandoned basketball's net!
Why is everything so tuneless as the surly larks...
the sluggard's eyes snap with anger as a hound barks!
The early sunset turns crimson, then gradually swarthy,
warning the haggard fisherman to pull the fishing rod
out of the foul water...to make him feel too forlorn;
suddenly...the windstorm increases the swelling of the rolling waves,
and the beach-goer, so serene and supine, has to leave hurriedly:
this was a remote refuge for his earnest prayers and quite thoughts!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
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