To The Picnic 1992

Charades on the middle-arm where the waters venture and meet,
The Straits call their salty waters to greet the Frasers flow,
Lovers tie their sailboats and stake them securely to the beach,
The man will walk and search for that ideal picnic site,

Friends just prepare to entertain one another,
Visitors seek out this parks accomodations,
Everyone is happy and alive,
All seems calm and serene,

Even the loud engine surge from the seaplane taxiing,
Never stirred anyone to look,
Distance and the breeze will disperse that sound,
Its terminal floating on a liquid runway,
No one really cares about them,

The cormorants surefooted,
Cling on their floating places,
They're special and oil their feathers,
During preening they'll digest their last feed then hunt once more,

As every living being nows is at peace,
An orchestration to direct the day becomes unique,
Every chapter is different on that beach,
But the stories become much more similar,

After the picnic,
The woman languid happily in the warm westerly breeze,
One could paint, scribe, or strum the mandolin,
The play on ones senses would be quite exquisite now on this beach.