I walk towards a flickering light,
half-seen across a dune,
following the sounds of laughter,
and an off-key tune.
The beach pulls at my shoes,
with a dozen grasping hands:
the grip of the dead,
from ships lost on these sands.
I smell burning cedar,
along with another exotic scent;
someone’s roasting ganja,
at a bonfire by their tent.
After I trudge up the rise,
I’m startled to find a party,
two or three score strong,
laughing hard and drinking hearty.
Their clothes are odd –
to say the least –
with gypsy scarves, fisherman’s caps,
and uniforms of navies long deceased.
This bunch in their costumes,
with guitars and kettle drums,
encircles the fire,
sharing dancing girls and rum.
And, oh! The fire!
It burns bright blue,
without an ounce of heat,
and soundlessly too.
I recognize a shipwreck burning.
Amidst coals and gathered driftwood,
some poor camper found company,
he never knew he could.
But what to do?
Kolchak I aint!
Do you join ghosts at merry,
or write up a noise complaint?
WILDsound Writing Festival 