the planes fly well overhead now
& couples no longer dawdle down
by the jetty where an old dinghy
rises & falls on the fluke waves
of passing powerboats … & now
cicadas chorale across an empty
bay old pipes protrude from the
muddy shallows & the trees though
blooming still billow untended &
unloved (though the summer & this
giant cross remain drifters are
its only pilgrims – snorkellers
scan the basin for discarded
bikinis or martini glasses (the
old wreck of a hotel still hopes
for a reunion with its past loves
the storms at sunset or the mock
evacuations – shells bursting
underfoot as the guys with their
miniature five string ukeleles
serenade two lovers demolishing
a lobster – all gone to the great
fairground in the sky now packed
up like crates of beer bottles
shipped off to another island
another beachside retreat for
nuns with cystic fibrosis …
now i hear the choppers swing
low coming in for their daily
sightseeing pass – dissecting
sea mist like it’s cold cabbage
inspecting our abandoned futures
like so many sad real estate agents
