Nicole’s winds drove the sea onto the land
Then over and under A1a,
Collapsing the road,
Flooding the inns and houses,
And destroying beach entrances.
Yet, Pelicans still glide over waves,
And dog walkers still converse at water’s edge.
Persistence
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Garden Door on Aviles Street
You wouldn’t think,
What with the nicely potted flowers
That flank the stained wooden garden door,
And, what with the bold golden colors
Of the distressed garden wall,
No, you wouldn’t think
That the single, bare, and unassuming branch
Visible through the barred window
Would maintain such a grip on my attention.
The House at the End of Vilano Bridge
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 Prince of Wales English Pub
Covid-closed tavern
Unlikely to reopen –
Vociferous stillness
Early Morning on Aviles Street
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.
Toward the Sons of St. Augustine Statue in Summer
It was cooler here in the covered archway,
Protected from a ruthless sun
And shirt-soaking sticky wet air.
A voice whispered, “Linger here, what’s your hurry?”
But, I was drawn toward the light ahead,
Like some moth to a seductive flame.
Seeking clearer sight in spite of
Sun’s summer fury
Street Tease
Screened door on Charlotte Street,
Rooted in its garden wall,
Offers a glimpse of Eden,
But denies re-entrance to all.
Pilgrim’s Journey: Preface
At day-break
I head north on St George.
Tourists linger still in motels
So I walk unhindered
In the cool morning calm.
.
As if directed, my gaze shifts
From sunlit fronds
To a shaded area up ahead
Where the street bends to the west
And a vague whispered promise beckons.
Irony
For four hundred years and more,
These walls of time-compressed shells,
Designed to absorb English shot,
Excel now in reflecting sun’s early light.
Sun’s Sentinel
Hugging the shore of Matanzas Bay,
Old coquina walls, built facing east
To scour the inlet for enemy fleets,
Now lay deep in sleep each incoming day.
Vilano Images 