#127
Compo Beach at Night
It was never easy to walk in sand barefoot
yet who wore their sneakers?
I don’t know why,
but I remember Compo Beach
in winter, wet and grey,
the wind blowing wet sand
towards your legs, towards your eyes.
The differences in colors were slight.
Canons sit on the hill by the beach
left in memory of
the march when
General Washington
met up with General Putnam.
A beach house with snack bar and changing rooms,
outside showers and toilets
painted stark white on grey cement.
Life guard chairs that same bright white,
a pre snowy world of beige and grey
pebbles and shells
small and subtle.
rocks jut out into the Long Island Sound.
Seagulls fly in and out
flocking by snails, barnacles
and seaweed.
We sit wrapped up in blankets
over coats and blue jeans,
scarves wrapped around our ears and we listen
to the herring gull squack, squack – squawck!
I’m not sure what I can latch on to.
Not even your face provides an
unsubtle bit of information
I know you are dying.
I’m convinced if we don’t return
to the snow of Vermont
the bright white and high cold blue skies,
that just maybe this quiet
scene can hold you in place
in time – stop your cells from growing
under your grey skull cap.
Compo Beach, I have not seen since 1976.
How odd?
One of those places I went to regularly
To look out upon the world
I moved away from it, just
after you got sick.
Since then so many have passed on.
I’m shocked to look at pictures
realizing how many I’ve lost.
Grey cool damp breeze
smell of sea moving out
small shifts of water rise up
slide back
Starfish hold tightly by
the water’s edge.
In Berkeley one rises and looks
out over the Bay, one can see
the blanket of fog covering
the Pacific and the city beside you,
but you know it will burn off.
Colors will begin to sprout, winter
green or summer Eucalyptus trees
But in December,
on the Long Island Sound
color does not prevail.
Color is prevailing in Massachusetts today.
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