We bound down the stairs and out into the light of day and into the blue
of the misty breezes, heavily laden with the smell of wild sea salt roses, that
grow in perfusion along the winding road, that bends and turns in gentle lifts and dips to the other side of the bay, where it crosses the bridge and rises up and
winds away over the hill.
Overhead the seagulls screech and glide over the ocean spray that washes
on the rocks on the lower banks behind our house along the Fundy Bay, where
we run like the wind through the fields of fresh cut hay and make our way to
the rocky mantle below .
There in the volcanic plateau worn smooth as glass by the constant
rolling weight of the ocean, is our pool, known by all in our village, as 'Lisa's
Bathtub', created by the eruption of the earth's inner core, millennia's ago.
We slip into the still salty water, that has been warmed beneath the
blazing sun and float with the perry winkles and tiny crabs and listen to the sound of the ocean, that roars beneath us as it leaves in the receding tide, while we drift away, in our minds, my little brother the 'King' and I, the 'Queen' for a
day on the 'Fundy Bay'.
For my little brother: