Pebble Beach
The gardens run down to the sea
Like Berkshire under the Spanish sun
Tidy hedges protect well tended gardens
Where careful owners greet the morn.
Simple, precious, second-homes
For the snowbirds who return each March
To a Britain that has endured the rigors
Of weary winter and a Brexit chill.
Six months they’ve passed
Soaking up the sun
Growing old together
A blessing for everyone.
The sea breaks on the magma
At the end of every street
Which opens to the ocean wide
With inviting waters on every side.
Ten minutes walk along the path
Brings us to the boats with sails
Cleats that tinkle in the wind
That whisper fun and sea trips.
Or we can march along the cinders
That lead to Amarilla mountain
A place of stern and blasted beauty
Untamed by men over centuries.
Forty minutes to reveal the ugly beauty
That only progress makes when halted
Half finished structures cry to heaven
Weathered signs point to what used to be.
There seems to live a tribe who bought
But could not find resources
To keep their winter homes repaired
A tale of caution to the unprepared.
This is an island with short memories
Progress means up with the new
Forget the old and let it fester
No Cesar Manrique to protect them.
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