When the Tourists Go Home

The blue/gray sea
stretches  in endless expanse.
The tide is heavy with flow
and fury.  Roiled and misty,
it is a restless thing.

Little airplanes
with their billowing banners
have gone home.  No need to tout Coppertone
when there is no sun and no tourists
to see them.  It is November, even the seashells
have buried their heads in the sand.

On the boardwalk, the carousel is still;
the horses are draped in their winter blankets.
They will emerge in May with the music,
tails and manes fluffed with a new brush,
coats sleek.

At the beach, this is the Spirit Season.
Wind and soul and stretches of sand
become one.  Even the gulls
sense the change. Their rudeness is gone.
True to their tuxedos,
they are a picture of harmony.

This deserted shore is the perfect place
for peace treaties.  One must remember
to bring pencil and paper.  The tide is rising;
white capped waves are rolling in. Anything
written in sand will soon be gone.

10 thoughts on “When the Tourists Go Home

  1. Very nice, smzang!
    Beautifully done
    This is a wonderful heartfelt blog.
    I look forward to following along.
    I hope your day is a happy one…
    Greetings from the bautiful Rhine-Highlands / Germany
    Rosie

    1. Thank you, Rosie,

      You are very kind.
      It is great to see you here.
      I have followed your blog for a couple of years. In fact one of your drawings inspired a post on this blog. I will look for it and post it tomorrow
      (Friday).

  2. BoardFlak

    Fall and winter are when the beach hits the “reset” button to prepare for next spring. The seashells going back under the sand and the seagulls mellowing their mood are nice touches which add to the feeling of winding down for the year.

  3. Hey, there. Just thought I should mention that I shared this on my Facebook author page and it proved rather successful, more so than many of my own pieces. So, I’m a little bit jealous, but I’m mostly happy that you hopefully noticed a little uptick in folks visiting your blog…

    1. This poem is about Assateague Island, Maryland…just outside of Ocean City. Nothing there but sand dunes and wild ponies and of course the Atlantic.. Even so, the tourists defile it all summer. I grew up in that area The fall was such a splendid time of year. Tourists gone, sand frozen; the ocean sang and so did the shore birds.

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