Yes, we bought an old seaside house in
Maine, near Lubec, most eastern part of
The shore, next to the Canadian border,
Two plus hours out of Bangor, edifice to
Another era stood vacant, once a house,
Then hotel, house again, perhaps the
Order was reversed, one corner of the
Downstairs was restored and livable,
Bright-windowed country kitchen.
Payphone stood proudly on the wall,
Between kitchen and living room,
1956 dime found in change return,
Memento left by previous owners.
Intriguing was not modern living space,
But creaking upstairs, thread-bare
Carpets on quaking board floors, doors
And windows not easily opened or
Closed, unhinged or repaired.
Yet, I had acquired seven brass beds,
Double and twin size, musty mattresses,
Ancient enameled bathtubs, leaking
Or non-existent plumbing, radiator
Heating, and alas, my bedroom, calling
To me, like waves breaking on rocky
Shores of Maine, visceral meeting of
Pine paneling and heart, overlooking
Sunny stretch of fishing bays.
Like “Ghost and Mrs. Muir,” this was
Not “Gull Cottage,” but raggedy osprey
Nest, with needy fledgling “bird-rooms”
Each requiring money in lieu of bits
Of dead fish to revive and breathe sea
Air again. Somehow I understood and
Agreed, I could not leave, this rambling
House had become hearth and home,
I stated, “Yes, it’s now Seaside B&B!”
From early morning dream to free-verse poem, welling
words and images of this far-distant part of Maine,
rambling seaside house calls to me in predawn hours,
seeking new life as Seaside Bread & Breakfast.
What will the cat think?
Written whilst listening to “Homburg” by Procol Harum,
“For the floor she found descended, and the ceiling was too tall.”