Sandy Lane

Early Summer, from within a mobile home,
The wind howled
As my grandfather read his newspaper.
The mobile nearly shivered with the cold,
All except the small stove we sat near.
But then, the wind would quieten
And the clouds would part as if finished an afternoon’s work.
My grandmother and I would start off for the dunes,
The rolling hills of sand and grass.
It took a while before we could see it;
The pearl white sand stretching out left and right,
And the cold Atlantic, throwing itself at the beach.
Along it we would pace,
Retracing the steps of those who came before us.
Footprints, dog paws and horse hooves.
Then after all there was to tread had been walked,
We would walk home,
To the stove and my Grandfather.