A small family of leaves huddle beneath my front door step,
Refugees of the season,
As a plastic bag hovercraft goes past my gate, hastened by
A more endorsed wind.
The wide screen window behind the television shows life in
More than high definition,
As the holly’s outline pierces even from this distance and the
Rose’s thorns warn likewise.
A pomegranate, ripped open on the pavement, shows its pips,
Virginal and simultaneously erotic,
While spiders, heightened by the dry summer, strut their stuff
Looking for love, and frighten instead.
Things change quickly in the country, and the town, surrounded
By such, suffers much for its concrete beach,
And we free people, squashed into brick worked life rafts, draft
Proofed and insular, hunker down for darker nights.
And the surrounding sea, once criticized for hounding land and
Eating into our tiny vineyards and apple orchards, has
Pulled back its tides and packed its waves away, giving up its
Bitten sands, and left for other shores more civilized than ours.
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