There were fractures beneath the quaint seatown’s tidy surface
rhythms of conversation swirling in questions, accusations
transformed to chatter, gossip, rumor
a staccato'd crescendo of growing suspicions
the upright citizens organizing themselves above their chorus of voices
picked up the cold, gray morning winds over a churning sea…
The residents' peccadilloes became more memorable than their virtues-
hidden brothels and drunkenness seep into the townscape blur;
people scatter from the oncoming storm, growing in volume and moving like a wedge
splitting the harmony of the town open, whipping it with a tempest
and as if a psychic being, playing their ruses like an ancient tune;
then uneasy feelings are washed away on a golden Sunday morning
when radiant light glittering from the calmed waters streaming into the church…
How near love is to torture, how tragic the misplaced faith in human goodness,
when, gravely sorrowful, fears rise like snaking figures in the night
then uncovers murders most foul, beyond redemption
followed closely by a vindictive justice knitted in childhood dreams
endless, like the chilling tale of a Renaissance lament…
The quarry flees to the empty beach with the ghosts of his victims in pursuit,
their chants shrieking in triple forte
sealing his madness and accompany him to his fisherman’s grave
where, in its ceaseless motion, comes and goes the tide…
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