A.M. De-Stressing

Soon it will be seven, and the bridge master will raise the drawbridge for the first time.

The gears will bellow as the plates bend upward tall-masted ships released at last will ease through the opening churning the waters as they pass soon after that the plates will descend again and the line of waiting cars long now will pour onto Cathedral Street hood-to-trunk hand-to-horn jockeying for too few parking spaces this will play out every half hour again and again and again till seven p.m.

But not at this moment.

Transition

Lone ketch at dawn

Moored off the seawall

During an incoming tide –

Pleasing interlude

Between night and sunrise

Invasion

Sun steals silently through the inlet

To scale Castillo’s eastern walls,

But alerted palms stand ready.

Persistence

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.

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.

Vilano Images

Illustrated Coctail Napkin Thoughts

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