My Coastal Village

The Postman walks his route faster than usual,
twice the speed of slow motion,
for we do not rush in our coastal remoteness.
Even the storms are not hurried much

The eye of lighthouse scans altogether unblinking.
Only the inexperienced get nervous when the sea's choppy.
The vane of this weather is the season of year.
The big ones have not yet blown in from Africa.

The gulls ignore the far away rumblings.
Magoo goes placid on his 2:30 spin.
He trusts in dry leaving, in dryness returning.
The Postman is different, he's on a mission.

Wet correspondence is characteristically non postal.
Hope the rain holds up a bit.
The Postman's expression is one of peace,
of a guy who knows where he is and has been.

Aside from the postal van of right-handed wheel,
we hardly see vehicles in our coastal remoteness.
Still, there's a hare who darts through yards,
and looks to the left and right, before crossing streets.