Many abandoned seasons were scattered there,

Many foolish reasons given without a care,

when dusk descended with a fair pink hand,

for testing the sorrows a heart can withstand.

Always beside the new are creaking boats of old,

in a fading town where tall sea tales are roughly told,

wearing a new coat of paint those boats become the kings,

though wild shouting storms a fierce grey shadow brings.

But on warmer days of waters clear and beaming sun,

inlets stretch out long where restless rabbits run,

no place far or wide could ever match its peace,

and snow on mountains its own chilled soul’s release.

Given there by nature to the widening artist’s eye,

theirs is not the place to judge or even question why,

seconds flashing heaven to those born to create,

for the meaning of such beauty is the gazer’s fate.