At the Shore, in April (Poem 356)

Offshore, fog blooms,
but here, boats shimmer in 
watery sunlight, creaking 
old floorboard tunes.

Pelicans fall from the sky
over  rocks shivering
dark with sea lions 

Cold April winds set old lovers 

to walking, where poetry flutters in 

the budding trees like piano keys 

trilling under small, young hands.

Misty children skip along the wet 

sand, tracing lacy puffs of foam, 

their fits of giggles rising, gull-like, 

on the breeze. 

Selflessly, they offer jingling 

shell-and-sea-glass trinkets to their 

mothers, who watch the day unfold 

from rumpled plaid blankets, 

eyes scanning the stanzas 

written on the horizon.

As twilight blooms, wood smoke 

melts sunburned smiles, leaves bright 

eyes bleary. Foolishly in love, young
couples linger until midnight, then 

trail off, hearts burning for their 

white-painted bedrooms. 

In full joy, three dolphins leap,
luminescent, beyond the point. 

Boats sputter. Later, 
the golden stars will sway
and spin.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six