still life with hour glass... another poem

Still life with hour glass
by Kevin Cahill

the silver sea unfurls on the golden sands, from far off lands come migrant swans,
sea birds clamor in the heart of the bay, breezes lightly brush the queues of waves.

It is August, the entire world, it would seem, has funneled down to this point, the

end of a pencil thin peninsula…day by day, hour by hour, bumper by bumper,

they pass through the bottleneck. the parisiens and the bordelaise spill

down upon the clotted fishing villages where houses bear names like

Yvonne, Penichette, Caprice… they spill down into condos and

campgrounds, gated estates with cloistered gardens, they spill

down all the way to the dunes and the beaches in places

called Petit Piquey, Arcachon, Lacanau. remorseless,

relentless spilling down, piling up, and spreading

out until everyone is assumed into one

monumental angle of repose, the

entire world, it would seem,

has been recomposed -
Paris and Bordeaux

evacuated –

all here...

the hour

finally

up.

It is

September,
the tide turns

the traffic back,
the rubber tires of

Porches and Peugeots crush

empty oyster shells, pleasure boats

rest dry and derelict, tipped on their sides

in the draining basin ... the entire world, it

would seem, has been dispersed, the glass reversed.

the silver sea unfurls on the golden sands, from far off lands come migrant swans,
sea birds clamor in the heart of the bay, breezes lightly brush the queues of waves.

K