In winter,
we hiked
bundled and stiff,
on hard sand
beyond the breakers
to the bay.
Airborne sand peppered us,
the brown grass bowed
and rustled.
Sculpted
by angry December,
dirty chunks of ice
tossed on shore
or bobbed
in dirty sea.

Near the mouth,
a concrete bunker
barely stood
on spindly pilings,
gun ports empty;
the u-boats never came.
A gull, the lone sentry
held fast the rail
and cried most bitterly
while I brimmed with joy
and sorrow
for the blue-gray day.

In the town
of deep chill,
the shops were boarded
but for one stand.
Beneath the silly hat
with droopy peak
a lopsided smile
and red cheeks,
your lips curled down
to rising steam
in a clumsy mitten grip.

Looking back now,
my groin tingles.
Fingers turn
the polished stone
tumbled by the surf,
a memento
of that day,
kept upon the desk
in the den
until our end.

12/16/2005

Author's Note: The old bunker has been exposed by erosion and still stands at Cape May Point, New Jersey, like a giant concrete block supported by spindly legs, ready to collapse in the surf.

Posted on 12/17/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill