Strange Season

The sun is bright, harsh on the eyes
after a week of rain and dark wind.

you squint, your eyes taking in the familiar landscape.
just over the dunes, you hear ocean waves,

still angry after the storms, loud and urgent,
and utterly rhythmic.

It is the rhythm you seek as you cross the dunes,
the reassurance that even in the worst of time,

there is a consistency in life.

You breathe in the March air. It is cold,
even as the sun toasts your skin, a strange season,

of too much time inside your house and head.
you are hungry for sky, for the sounds of life,

You cross the dunes. The beach lies before you.
There are others there, escapees from a week of changing weather,

refugees, dotting the shore. Eyes blinking,
like cats waking in the midday,

unsure if they are predators or prey.

About this poem

This odd, semi-official time of hunkering down at home is wearing thin. And it’s only day three. If it warms later today, a walk is in order. Till then, curious poems.

Tom