My angry campfire snaps and crackles

Waves like thunder crash on sand

The birds and squirrels communicate

In a way we’ll never understand

Stoke the fire and open up the case

My guitar wants to play the songs of old

I hear the chill winds whip up a chorus

In the Atlantic’s sublime shades of cold

The endless miles stretch across the ocean

In my mind I see a land across the sea

My pick strums the first chord then another

About a lonely someone I don’t want to be

I pause now and then to write a new line

In a well used notebook titled songs

The night is right for muse and master

This place seems to be where he belongs

The sun bids the moon to go to work

The last line a chorus falls in place

Put away that old scarred six string

Another memory captured here tonight.