Ame ia River Campground

At the turn of the beach there’s a small tree cove, a scrap of New Zealand barely in Florida, a wood between the worlds wavering with the ever-summer cedar scent of canoes and crystal lagoons.

Past the crunch of ghostly booted footprints the tannic river salts and sparkles, sailboats and shrimp boats working ancient pleasure past the jetty-sharp Atlantic arms.

The remains of a midnight campfire belonged to the ranger’s children, but to us it was a sure sign pirate refugees had sought shelter here.

Across the water is the untraceable Tiger Island infested with snakes. To the north is Cumberland, where castaway horses roam through ruined palaces.

Through the channel of the river come the long, black, secret ships carrying cargo of instantaneous obliteration. The cove is a strange marriage of safety and death homeward longing, living Nautilus.

In the coarse sand of tales we retreated to our woods and called it Narnia.

Poetry 23