Picture this — a tiny hamlet
clinging to the rocky coastline,
perched above a sheltered inlet,
fishing nets draped over clotheslines.

Saltbox houses fenced with pickets,
marching landward from the seashore,
fences breached by open wickets,
each house wears a white-washed screen door.

Hear the sounds of sweaty weather,
chirping songs from hidden crickets,
hidden ‘neath the leaves of heather
growing in the nearby thickets.

Walk beneath the shady chicots,
elms untouched by deadly blight.
Entertainment needs no tickets 
when you use your inner sight.