Cloud wisps of sea smoke rise over the bay,

And far over the ocean beyond,

Like ghosts rising up from their graves in the deep

At the wave of a sorcerer’s wand.

In summer the ocean’s a swimmer’s delight

Young folk flock there to learn how to swim,

But beware, what’s so lovely can catch unawares,

Those who go out to sea on a whim.

The moods of the ocean are varied and wide

Northeasters bring shore crushing waves,

Then it’s quiet again, little more than a lake,

With a breeze that each sailor craves.

Our lobstermen’s buoys tangle up in a storm,

Into “blossoms” mired in seaweed below.

Storm waves may be lovely for landfolk to see,

But fishermen don’t see them quite so.

Those who lived through each blizzard and Northeaster storm

Learned respect and so very much more.

What lures tourists and natives, carpetbaggers like me,

Is quiet sea or a wave crashing roar.

Our artists paint pictures of all that they see

Of the ocean or down by the shore.

Our history of men working quarries so deep’s

Told by writers who know of such lore.

“Rockport blue” ‘s the sea’s color on bright sunny days,

Granite gray when dark clouds fill the skies.

Sea breeze or land breeze, we’re cooler by far,

Than folk living where no seagulls fly,

Leaving home I’ve two choices this island to leave,

Blue / gray ocean to my left or my right,

Had I known as a child this would happen to me,

Disbelief would have sparred with delight.

Our “quaint “village life tied so close the the sea,

Is a wonder , it’s story half told,

I’ll not take for granted what’s given to me,

For to live here’s a gift pure as gold.

Virginia Atkinson

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