Beyond the waves that lap the sandy beaches
my balcony looks down on, there must be
no distant shoreline, only open sea
that stretches toward the west until it reaches
the sky to make an infinite horizon,
which the sun sinks into with a hiss
of surf as afternoon and evening kiss
good night and sky turns on its constellations.
The only sounds allowed besides the surf
are cries of gulls and very distant swimmers
and snapping flags so twisted by the wind
it's impossible to say who rules this turf,
the Kingdom of the Endless Perfect Summers,
which I move to every winter in my mind.
Richard Cecil
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