ANTIGUA

On the steps, a chameleon

Looks over the place:

White smile, warm sun

On the tan face.

 

The sea flume

Behind sweeps up

The yard.  Spume

Muddles and slups


 

The wood post, ocean come

To fluent ends.

Bay perfume

Soaks the sand,

 

Rain into sponge,

Skids flush

Up the shale to lunge

And fall.  This was slush

 

On the mainland.

Now it touches

Base: vacation

Provides too much

 

Rest here to last

The beach pail is stained

Briefly with rust,

And drained. Time for a change.

 

Grasses gather,

Forgotten screens.

The sky is still forever.

The fence leans.

 

Shoaling in the weather,

In the shiver of close waves,

Island shifts and stirs,

Launders the shade

 

On these long days.

Memory allows

The distant haze

Of just one cloud,

 

Postmarked, opal,

Moved by the recent

Breeze to a stamped curl

Down where the sun will set.

 

Every shutter sparkles,

On the porch, in the shade;

Each board clatters.  Inside,

The bed complains, unmade,

 

Abandoned with such

Care - pillows flat,

Sheets untouched

By this or that.

 

Old currents slat, run

Across the antique key:

Summer is done:

No change seen.

 

Salt works on the car,

The cactus.  Dawn

Rises hot behind the far

Reed.  Shades are drawn.

 

Dogs dream.  Sound crowds the place,

White wood, foam, sea

Rushing past, a trace

In the sky, sand fleas

 

Warmed by the carol beach.

The lizard on the stair

Spends its time

In the sun, head up, aware

 

Of the flecked design

Of sand where

Perspective might

Place it in some

 

Trellised night,

Too long in the air

Not to have changed;

Still, it is there.