Yet there were no clapboard houses
painted brightly, clinging like limpets,
strung across the rocky hillside.
There were no pinstriped garden snails,
no flock of gulls to snatch them up
and drop them down from high above,
to strip the bruised snail-flesh free
from shells with gleeful squawks.
The river smelled like the sea.
Terns gathered up the scattered figments
of an overactive imagination
and twisted their coiled, aethereal strands
into clever nests, impregnable fortresses
to house their squalling young.
July 16, 2014