Myrtle's Search

Strolling in the wee dark hours, Myrtle went to find the beach
to search for shells where shells hardly ever wash ashore.
You want exotic, go to the waters of the balmy Caribbean
where legend has it, a tunnel 600 miles
connects Venezuela to Puerto Rico

Strolling Myrtle met the sun float in from Europe,
a subtle sun on a day, the forecast overcast.
We write from Cape Henrico, named for Henry VIII.
Here, first English to North America dropped anchor.
Here, Navy School of Seals trains in counter terrorism.

Strolling Myrtle as in dreams, comes upon a mother up to ankles in lace
blown inland from abroad.   Caring mother towels boy who sees in strand
timbers of  wreck, Giovanni Baptiste, drowned in 1904.  So far, no shells
but Myrtle takes another snapshot, and I by her side like lance bearer
to a knight, carry her basket for shells,just in case.

Down a ways, Myrtle captures three sitting maidens like pears in still life,
staring at the horizon as if  it were the outstretched arms of Big Ben at a quarter to 3.
In the postal runs of  tides the sea leaves behind,  jellyfish,
horse shoe crabs with rear sharp statements,
sometimes ocean mammals.

Behold, reality:  Starfish gaze at heaven's ocean above the water.
Behold reality: Pelicans ready plunge into the membrane.
Behold reality: Wherever collectible, wherever photographic,
tidal, co-existing.
Always ebbing.