Howard Street

 Howard Street

I’ve a brimmed hat affixed low upon my brow,

step quickly between dappled live oak and cedar shade;

try to avoid midday’s scorching sun.

Sandals fill with crushed shells, dirt, and gravel

as I pass famous Howard Street signs nailed to gnarled tree, 

pass burial stones slanted one way and another, 

walk beside peeling white-washed wooden fences 

adorned with whelks and weather-beaten decoys, 

dangling decorations, silent and still.

Angry waves have washed beneath my feet, this very spot 

trying to be claimed, perhaps reclaimed, by the sea. 

Perseverance; a character trait paraded time and again;

one in which I admire as I sketch old humble cottages

along this path, pencil imagined families, pets, 

Sunday dinners shared outside, 

perhaps a waterfowl whittled beneath these very trees,

family cemetery next door; flowers watered, vines cut back,

stories and escapades retold, prayed over, 

remembered.  Such as Blackbeard’s quartermaster, 

a fun subject for “haunted walks”; whether folklore or fact,

the first William Howard. 

My belly growls; sixteen miles of fabulous beach

isn’t the only reason people flock to Ocracoke.  

Around the corner awaits fresh seafood, refreshing drinks, 

friendly banter.  

Some things never change.

Margaret Bednar, August 9, 2020

This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #32"