The bench is carved with lovers words,
made of the driftwood,
that lies stacked in forts,
children building homes by the sea,
the waves threaten the homes,
warning not to build too close to the foamy,
white residue that stains the compact sand.

A man calls a name out into the horizon,
the black dog pops its head to the surface,
retrieving the neon green, felt ball.
A little girl is chased by a baby wave,
laughing and screaming while she runs,
in and out, there and back.
An old man climbs the narrow steps that hug the cliff,
while the fog rolls in, painting his face,
with wet mist.

A seagull soars, crying out at the Pelican,
who has just stolen his lunch,
while lovers walk by the lovers bench,
discussing their hunger.

The wind shakes the rattlesnake wheat,
making it hiss at passersby.
A boat's motor is heard in the distance,
interrupting the roars of the waves,
but it is hidden by the thick smoke of the fog.

The sun pokes through for only a moment,
making the water sparkle,
illuminating the scales of all the cove's fish.
The crow flies around,
stealing wild wheat form the fields of the cliff.
Purple and white dot the fields while
green and gold paint the dusty, rocky earth.

A tin trash can lies at the entrance
of the trail through the bushes of blackberries,
full of drunken beer bottles stacked by
drunks or the lonely no doubt.
A small town lies in the distance with
houses old and people that embrace the earth
with their patches of fresh lettuces and berries and Spring peas.

I find sanctuary from the enclosing mist,
in the charming 1878 Victorian Hotel lobby
with the plush armchairs and
a spot of peppermint tea.
I look out over the fields that I just ran through
and remember the chatter of the finches and
the buzzing of the bumble bees
that hid in the bushes of the sweet, black fruit
thorns and leftover white blossoms of Spring.

© Natalie Taylor