Of late, as I lie abed in midnight darkness,
my slumberous brain-wanderings have taken me back
to revisit once more those joyous summer days
I long ago lived and loved on a wild Atlantic seashore.

Fire Island was my childhood Oz, my Never Never Land,
an enchanted refuge from drear long scholastic slavery,
where salt air, sand, and solitary sea grassy dunes
renewed my crushed spirit when June’s freedom finally rang.

I remember brilliant bright sun in a sapphire sky,
fluffy white clouds that brought smiles for no reason.
I feel again the tug of fragrant breezes caught in my hair
and hear the whistling cries of hunting terns and sandpipers.

Tangy tart blueberries everywhere grew wild, beach plums too,
guarded by poison ivy but free for those daring enough to pick.
Gather a basket full and perhaps Mama would bake a pie,
purple, heavenly, sweet enough to bring forth glad tears.

And always, always, the interminable pounding of the surf,
white-crested combers crashing along miles of snowy beach,
caressing ankles and tickling toes of wading laughing children,
lifting up on broad billows those brave enough to swim the blue.

Oh, how I played! Carefree days spent building sandlot castles,
homework-free hours of hide-and-seek, hopscotch, haunted house.
Picnics, outings, marshmallows and lemonade, roasting hot dogs,
spray-filled ferry rides and racing bicycles through indigo twilight.

I still smell the creosote-soaked planks of the bayside fishing dock.
I would bait my bamboo pole and maybe catch small silver snappers,
carefully clean them to proudly bring home for Daddy’s breakfast.
Watching his enjoyment brought happiness I never again knew.

Those magical Fire Island summertimes are vanished forever.
A half-century of years has passed, childhood is long gone.
I am given new blessings to count, for Heaven has been kind.
But my lost days of summer only live now in fragile dreams.