There was a time when I couldn't wait to get away. Now I long every day for the coast; for the rocks and the fog, and the rain, and the mist. I long for the moan of the fog horn, the cry of the sea gull, the call of the snipe, and the howling, haunting roar of the North Atlantic gales. I want to see the Northern Lights sweep across a silent winter night, and to feel the thrill and the chill of seeing every conceivable character come alive on that brilliant night-time canvas. To stand and stare as the stage is set and the scenes unfold across the whole length and breadth of the sky. To watch whole pantomimes played out in purple, blue, green, silver, gray, and a host of colours as yet unknown. I still want that magic. I could still have it--ON THE COAST.
I want to glide across a glittering pond toward the black of the night beyond the pond, where imaginary animals wait to pounce with fangs bared and claws sharpened. To feel the wind on my face as I skate and skate and skate. Till the frosty air makes my eyes water, and hands grow numb inside soggy woolen mitts; and I breathe on them--hard--and try to blow warm air inside to thaw half-frozen fingers. Till the moon slides in all her golden glory across the sky, and I know the time is late and at home, scoldings await. Till I finally call it a night; force sore aching feet inside sodden boots and trudge half-heartedly home. But I know tomorrow night will come and I'll be back again. Unless there's a sudden thaw. And that's not likely--ON THE COAST.
I long to watch icebergs glide majestically down from the North on long, lazy afternoons. When the sun on your face feels good, and soft summer breezes lift your hair and your spirits. To sit atop a hill and do nothing, just sit and watch as the boats in the harbour come and go, while the fragrance of wild flowers mingles with the tartness of juniper and the dampness of moss. Where the tangy, salty air insists you take deep, deep breaths, while sea gulls wheel and dip and cry overhead as they swoop low, skimming the surface for tantalizing tidbits thrown from fully laden skiffs. To marvel as those magnificent bergs--their blue-tinged beauty awesome and almost impossible to comprehend--go about the business of gliding on to who knows where. What splendors! What wonders such a day can hold--ON THE COAST.
I long and long to wander down lanes alive with butterflies and buttercups; to pass picket fences gleaming with new white-washed coats, and see clothes lines dancing in sun-kissed back yards. To watch tow headed boys with bare feet fish from wooden docks with shop string attached to sticks that serve as fishing rods. I want to ramble over hills and cliffs and rocks where skinned knees never hurt for long. And discover hidden places where birds build nests and berries grow undisturbed. To walk again through ghost coves, where ruins of forgotten houses and forgotten people still remain; and to hear--often--their tears and fears and unanswered prayers mingle and float gently on the silken strands of summer--ON THE COAST
(c) 2000 Marlene McCarty
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