Off Season
Sitting alone at a sidewalk table,
We sip cabernet in the cool breeze,
Beneath a green Perrier umbrella.
Red and amber leaves swirl
Beneath skies gray with winter clouds.
The air smells faintly of fish
From the stony beach.
The off-season in this coastal village
And only townies and a few
Lagging tourists like ourselves remain.
It is the last stop,
On the final day
Of our vacation
And we are fugitives,
Masked by tartan scarves,
Eluding a persistent tour guide.
Warmed by wool jackets
With collars turned up,
Our breath drifts like smoke
As the umbrella flaps,
And we order
Another glass of wine
To toast a new beginning.
Our tour bus pauses
On the cobblestones
By the cafe,
But we sit motionless as deer,
As it slowly rumbles
Out of town.