Photo credit: Jodi Locke
A thin ribbon is the margin
That separates the sea from the land
Along this stretch of Maine Coast.
There is a magical crispness to the air,
That permeates this waving band.
At path’s beginnings, riots of flowers
Scream for attention and draw
Walkers away from the river vista
That sweeps into the sea on
White ripples of water and spray.
The lane weaves its risky way along rocky
Edges of red and gray,
As it wanders between tall
Firs and tumbling lines of beach plum roses.
The ocean grumbles and splays onto
The chunks of granite,
Lashing at the shore with raking foam,
Tearing at the ribbon with vengeance.
Bright blue is the sea on sunny days,
Yet steely gray on morns with clouds.
Its combers of waves rage from storms
Or sweep gently onto the land in summer still.
Climbing onto a promontory,
The trail braces for a view of the
Stretching white sands,
Of surfers riding the tips of low waves, or
Pulls eye towards the bald head of
Wild goldenrod laughs
At those who would behold only roses.
Gulls careen close to the surf,
And rugged bushes cling to the rock.
Taut sails lean into the wind cresting foam.
Too soon, curving walks bring
The journey to coves of oar weed,
Leading to gray weathered cottages,
And onto a bridge that draws
To an end this salty stone margin.