NANTASKET IN WINTER
chasing seagulls chasing french fries,
bringing summer sounds to a deep winter's night.
It is almost dark, the fractured surf
demands every scrap of light in order to glint
a sullen creature of vastness and pride.
A hardy fisherman, New Englander to his boots,
watches headlights cruise slowly to the point, and back
with nowhere else to go, hauling wet nets from leeward side.
There in the spindrift he sees it,
just for an instant, then it is gone once more.
Paragon Park was shuttered and torn down
over thirty years ago. Nothing remains
save the carousel, now boarded against February's bite.
Still, the ghostly Tilt-A-Whirl mocks the silence
of the now-black sky, tossing constellations like confetti,
whispering of the ungainly joy long past.
Squalls of winter waste run pell-mell across the sand,
the sounds of the Blue Note the only life in the chilled air.
Trash pickers and drunken customers outside the Red Parrot
vie for the attention of the last free spirit left on the peninsula.
©2008 Christopher Reilley
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