Further up the hill was a welcoming olde world sign.

Beer, teas, coffee and toasted delicacies.

The crowd was friendly, honest and mostly strong.

Intellectually strong, emotionally trying their best.

Smiling eyes radiated the warmth of life, the manicured tales of life.

A plate of peas, a dish of salad and a private platter.

Drifting towards a fine sand beach, I opened the rear port window.

A few people had already gathered to find out something, anything, about this lush craft.

Even after a week moored offshore, a token crowd would follow me as I went ashore.

I found friends and storytellers, rascals and bright sparks.

They were the walking encyclopedia of the island.

Drastic beauty and the poems from Saturn.

All the girls and boys sing this song at lunchtime.

All the adults forget the words and hum along out of tune.

One opera singer became famous recording this in six languages.

Tomatoes.

Over the hill, below the river, by the cottage.

A trickle of smoke from the chimney.

A puff of soil lifted by nocturnal creatures.

A morning with eggs and grainy bread.

A forest soon.

It’s here again.

The sound of laughter.

Little silver paper-wrapped nuggets of wisdom

The symbols of subtle sentences sent in sympathy