I met an artist on the beach,
wandering down the pale sand on
a South Carolina cloudy Sunday as
my daughter and I took pictures
of sand pipers and pelicans,
while drinking in all the ocean we
could in a day….
she was there, walking out of a castle,
her sandles dangling from one hand,
her long linen shirt billowing out
from cropped black pants.
She was working on a sculpture of
Don Quixote riding his ancient steed,
she spoke like the waves as they pull
away from the shore,
the delicate sound of fragile shells
clicking together as water washes them
for the millionth time.
And just as I realized she was talking
to me, we had come nearly face to face
and there was Atalaya with its ornate
ironwork of seafoam green against a
stark brick and mortar rambling of
rooms and gardens, stables and archways.
My daughter beckoned to me to look at this
anomaly and as I turned back to respond
to the woman, I felt only a salty mist, a
taste of copper and the sound of
an artist’s hammer on metal.