Below Crown Hill

Below Crown Hill

 

there was a time when a nylon webbed beach chair was my throne

watching bonfires blazed on lazy summer nights

watching the beach circus as young tattooed torch twirlers

illuminate the darkness while perfecting their craft

watching the decommissioned battle worn USS Missouri sail past

honored and humbled she silently graced us with a final bow

 

daylight finds a strip of well-traveled beach

approach the sandy garden like a meditation

early enough for dew-covered picnic tables, benches and grass.

empty parking lots gave me a false sense of ownership

wind surrounding as I move toward the edge of the Sound

solo footprints sink deep

shattered specks of shellfish and charcoal freckle beige

 

south, the armada of sailing masts

waiting for weekend warrior to jostle for position

out the slip past the dock, then quick rig to catch the pacific gust

crows and gulls carve up parking lots like warring gangs

seals bark out a warning as the beat police

the northern duck pond sacred ground

 

there was a time I laid out a blanket for you

children caught softballs and frisbees,

waited for marshmallows to crisp brown

above us, the Vancouver train blew its whistle

you put your head on my chest and talked of wanderlust

deep in the night I picked up a stick

wrote “Sanctuary” in the sand

circled it with my heart

the tide took you both in the morning

 

 

(From “Late Model” by Zack Hoffman)