Verlie Burroughs is a west coast writer from Vancouver Island.
A wide beach stretches
in water colored sand,
seagulls stand in pools
at the tideline.
Far across the strand
in haloes of snow-capped peaks
young ladies ride on flying horses.
Dogs sniff salty air running
circles around lost leashes
as families search for seashell bounty.
Seaweed and driftwood
shredded salvage, storm washed gold
piled into mountains.
Rowing Vivian Home
Old Vivian is seated,
perched in the stern.
I watch him as I row.
He has a smile,
wide as the day is long.
"It's so good to be back on my boat," he whispers.
His eyes are on the horizon.
I see behind him in the mist.
An island full of dreams,
phantoms rising like smoke.
I hear them drumming,
Vivian is wearing a Sailor's cap,
his suit jacket lapel is covered in WWl Medals.
A warm wool button blanket covers
his ancient shoulders.
"You did a real nice job, fixing
This should get us to
the island, maybe all the way
home if the tide is good."
He laughs, his almond eyes shining
in the sunrise.
I had an east-coast dory once upon a time.
It was a flat bottom double-ender made of plywood, with a center-board keel and a small sail.
The boat was built by an old friend of mine who copied the design from a dory he discovered while working as a lighthouse keeper.
Oh god the beach was beautiful tonight driving home. Tide way out, miles of sand and puddles with this incredible backdrop of snow pack mountain range across the water. breathtaking.
Wish you were here.