All Cove

The patient fog sounds and slowly surrounds
The cabins and lands by All Cove.
It travels with alarm-fresh smells
Of unravelled greens through courteous beams of moonlight.
Some Country cattle say, “stay” others glumly, “move.”

Wild, hunkered hounds on the long, rolling ground
Sleep with the lost, grey golf balls,
Dream ‘neath the paperless poplars,
Twitching paws in June’s infectious infancy.
Clumsy bats flip overhead, biting often on the tasteless few.

Should-be-slumbering children giggle and sweat,
The 3-2-a bed, beset by sand and burr.
Drowned in campfires, high on black scab drippings of sugar;
Marshmallowed. Warned by the Aunts, Told by the Uncles.
The sap-footed cousins are beat yet jubilant by All Cove.

by R.J. Bevans

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