Dusk
along the lane
only foundations remained
we traced them with our feet
stumbling occasionally
I stood inside one
he – just outside the one next door
for one moment
music lingered on the warm humid breeze
in September of 1941
there was no carnage
The old runway
evoked pre-dawn mornings
the palpable drone of engines
the smell of aircraft fuel
Ford Island
lay in the protected womb of Pearl Harbor
Unable to reconcile a relative of the onion growing among grape vines…
How far? I ask (is the ocean) whenever we are somewhere the ocean is not – often comes the reply “not far..” (Perhaps a few hour’s or a day’s drive) ‘Not far’ is a distance measured on the scent of a breeze something palpable in the atmosphere in fog rolling across the land ‘Not far’…
Sitting on the park bench she said, ‘catch me some sparkles to take home in a jar!’ So when we are far from here on a dark and dreary day I can remember this moment – Smell the tide see again the sun dancing on the water.
Against the antique oak rocker in the alcove leans a needlepoint begun decades ago (18th century American primitive re-created in my hand and style with woolen yarns and carefully selected stitches) Cart roads lead from the ‘big’ house, past out buildings and wild vines heavy with grapes (Norton?) – down at the river, a sailing…
Starting at the river Abercorn charts its course through the Historic District Victorian District, into Ardsley Park where 20th century takes hold and on past bungalows of the fifties and sixties Derenne marks the break where past and present meet the world to the right across the intersection – anachronistically into the sky – rises…
Side by side
They hung against what
I imagined were cool stone walls