In the vaulted, heather morning, birds unknown to me do caw,
Dipping down betwixt quick showers; silenced now, with worm in maw.
Though the hour be unholy, still I find myself at ease
With some semblance of well-restedness, above the gnashing seas.
Yes, I may confound the locals as I stalk the glossy streets,
Vested in my vibrant garb, with steel-toed boots and book of Keats,
But I cannot help but smile as I glide, untouched by mutters
Caressing every surface with my eyes and camera shutters.
Yes, you’re quiet, yes, you’re tiny, gorgeous, ancient, silent Grange
And in spite of this, I’m breathless—Is it really very strange?
I coo and I adore you, though no one ‘round me understands
That I’d like to sink my heart right into your voracious sands.
By Kendalle Fiasco, 2014