|photo by Ann Grenier|
What was he doing there, in paradise;
intruder in black glasses, a black dog,
a walking stick – appearing out of fog
on the velvet path where the lupines rise;
where the old camp rots - where the seagull cries.
He never spoke a word, nor gave a nod,
just stepped off the path and across the yard
past the rhubarb - never lifted his eyes.
We cannot say why we did not approach-
just watched from the cottage up on the hill -
the shadow float past the skeleton tree,
whose dead arms seemed vaguely to send reproach -
to beckon this specter, traveler so still,
back to his resting place, back to the sea.