Someday, I will move to the islands,
rent a tottery cottage facing perfect
picture seascapes, framed in chalky stucco
with a roof of rusty terra cotta
or of parched sienna thatch which thrills
in the cool, late afternoon breeze
where, every day, I'll sit on the veranda
of a cozy, quaint cantina, sipping
local beer and slushy margaritas,
taking in the palm frond-cluttered vista
of slivered coconut-fringed waves sloshing
mantra-like onto the Zen-swept sand.
Early mornings I'll set off across
deco-glass translucent, cyan sky-
reflecting dozy coves, sailing non-
chalantly on a gentle tack towards
no conclusion, wafting in the swell,
fishing for my nightly, sautéed supper.
I'll also take the time to read, or write,
a book about a man from paradise
who leaves his home for the city and makes good,
who in his leisure time, obsessively,
acquires travelogues about the islands
which, in vain, he vows to someday visit.
But now, I just imagine: tropic prospects
blossoming with plumes of white on blue;
gaily venturing down verdant footpaths
with saronged and singing brown-skinned girls,
wreathed in salt and flowers, who race the sun
on their way back to coral-colored harbors.
Kevin Cornwall © All rights reserved.