I never tire of the sound of the tires
grinding the gravel road
to the summer camp.

On those lovely evenings,
I’d loaf at the campsite
with a loaf of French bread
assorted cheese
and wine.

Or I’d head into town
for my sole meal
of stuffed sole
or perhaps scallops
au gratin
gently baked.

Now, the autumn moon shines
on freshly picked apples
and I pine for the pines in the sands of the Cape
with their wind gnarled branches withstanding the storms,
their long winding roots traversing the path.

Mornings I’d trip on those roots on my trip
to the surf on a trail lined with beach plums.

The seaside solitude of early morning
was only marred
by trash
disowned by others:

lost toys
deserted
by frenzied families,
the tools of the trade
of fishermen
on trawlers passing by;
I once saw a saw
of unknown origin
washed ashore.

Standing quietly
by the remains of a campfire
I thought to myself
even here,
I can help
restore beauty
and I picked up the cans
of an earlier party.