
This morning I sense Death following.
I can’t say how far he’s behind,
But I’m certain he’s closer than last year
And now has a longer stride than mine.
That said, those stunning blossoms ahead
Call for a moment or two of my time.
This charming street is descending now
With gravity quickening our step.
Ahead, I see our route curve north,
And while I cannot be certain,
I sense we approach the edge of town.
Still, if true, there’s little to be done
But to slow our pace, hold hands firmly,
And see our pleasant stroll to its end.
Look there to your right.
Do you see that small white house
Nestled in the trees at water’s edge?
I look for it each time I cross the bridge
As I head toward town.
And each time I feel that it’s calling to me,
Though I can’t put in words exactly why.
And each time I feel my heart reply,
Though I can’t put in words exactly why.
The sun has cleared the horizon beyond the inlet,
And now, to the rhythm of the nearing street sweeper’s brushes,
The homeless man gathers his things at night’s bench,
And the shopkeepers re-tidy their window displays from within.
Finally, the tour trollies leave their garage,
As the tourists settle their breakfast charges.
Oh, Aviles, brace ye for the approaching wave.