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When we returned, the island was haunted.
Seagulls sat sentry along coast edges
as we explored the shoreline, undaunted.

When we returned to the island,
it was already haunted.
Seagulls stood sentry along coast edges

as music clung to the island's edge;
theme and variation echoing

as blonde music floated above the tree-line
then descended among the brooks.
I saw the hairs stand on your neck.

The sky was not buttermilk, but
rain-bruised.  We saw footprints in the sand,
then paced their stride.

We harmonized to the music,
but it faded behind thunder's curtain.
Lightening threw shadows among the trees.