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Galveston |
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Driving along the quiet paved road, Old houses rise right in rose and blue; Decking the yards stand gryphons of stone, Guarding the lawns with their baleful view. At the motel the beach spreads out far, Hot sand pressed flat by wet and by sun; Music from the Club floats on the air; Students play ball and have their spring fun. Out on the water homes stand on stilts, Shielded from floods when the flow gets high; Salt spikes the air as a hot breeze blows; Seagulls float pinned in the stark blue sky. Walking the beach, wet sand underfoot, I stop to kneel on the Gulf's wide shore, Tasting the salt on my fingertips, Thinking of salt tasters gone before. --1998 |