Beverly Reminds of Seafarers

Beverly reminds me of Seafarers.
The Town rolls along on Hills.
New England Coast
Has a hard handhold on me.

Its small inlets,
Tiny Harbors which Present
Themselves against Frishermen's
Lodges, Anchoring and bringing Long
Long Taught lines ashore.

Beverly reminds me on
Seafarers returned Wet on Winter
Storms, Storms tossed on clapboards

With salt snow, spitting winds
Winters ghosts of Hawks
Owls of black ice night

Nice Lanie Beverly's Daughter
keeps Summer fruit
Autumn's gourds and orchards.

Vines that grow up beside
Flag poles and Halloween.

Wind is always here
Haunting sounds that
Rub against old doorways

Playing Riddles on our
Own Tides and Sentiments
Now three Generations.

Eliot guards the garden
Rugged rocky coast path
North. Eliot knows rivers

The way to fjord this Coast
With pebbly soft Grey
and Blue beaches
Guards the cold.

Beneath perfect round
Pebbles Death's rattle
Smiling mosses
Lit green in last wave
Retreats partnered in Sunlight