Batten the Hatch

Buzzing rail buggies spinning paddled tires beating out a gritty wake feather on sand dune deliberation over alcohol burning engines being better than gas everyone with lit cigarette in hand aroma of tobacco with salt launching forth from frothy waves forms low misty curtains a soft silty beach records a tiny footprint seagulls honking, hovering like sound buoy's a large black image emerges from the ocean it could be a friendly sea monster "it's grandpa" in a wet suit he wore more often than a coat and tie bringing his grandchildren treasure from Atlantis in abalone shell purses over flowing with sand dollars I could be all day at the boardwalk arcade with this haul he brought in there would be Salmon smoked and filleted for Thanksgiving dinner all the cousins huddled together in the family room with 3 bay windows on the cliff verging on the muffled sea countered by a fireplace and couches This painting of a tempest tossed ship with mast, less sail, over the mantel brush stroked by some nameless prophetic flea market artist over the hum of conversation, laughter and cacophony of china and crystal a hushed deep voice filled my chest like a distant fog horn blew "These are days of calm, my boy....... enjoy them!"