The Shuttered Coast

The boardwalk exhales, releasing the ghost of salt and sun-lotion. The ferris wheel is a rusted eye, closing against the sharpening wind.

Sandpipers needle the retreating tide, stitching the wet lace of the Atlantic. Each wave is a cold, grey tongue lapping the memory of summer from the pilings.

Shuttered windows are blindfolded faces, turning inward to the scent of cedar and wool. The lighthouse beam is a lonely finger, tracing the edge of a deepening violet sky.