Isles Of Scilly Hat Poem by James P. Roberts

It's been twenty-six years
this hat has been a part of me.

I would almost call it my identity,
the memories it brings are so sharp and vivid.

A mere sun-visor, blue and white -
nine named islands on the front:

Bryher, Tresco, Annet, St. Agnes, Gugh,
St. Mary's, St. Martin's, Eastern Isles, Round Island.

Not all are inhabited save for gulls, kittiwakes,
and seals swimming in warm waters.

These days I dare not wear it for too long
in the sun, my topside bald spot would burn.

When I left Clive in the Paper Shop
on that July day in 1990, I promised

I would return to the Isles of Scilly
on my honeymoon: twenty-six years!

Nearly half-a-lifetime, not just time
has passed me by.Ashes of yesterdays

accumulate as words written down, memories
played out on eternal repeat as long as there is breath.

This morning, before heading out on a bicycle
to enjoy a sunny day at the Memorial Union Terrace,

I looked at the photos of the Isles of Scilly on Facebook.
A quarter-century of change; were I there today

I would recognize only its essential skeleton.
That age-old mantra: There Is Only One Scilly:

Don't Change It still holds true in some places
but the idea of a temporary safe haven

from modernity is gone.I suspect even on
the pristine beaches one would still hear

the atonal clangor of cell phones, mangled
and fractured speech, an undercurrent of rage.

Some places exist only in dreams, once in a lifetime
happenings.I retain a few items: maps, worn

to tatters, raggedy t-shirt, thick plastic gift bag,
another hat (purely white)bought

on the first afternoon when the sun "did" burn
through my thinning hair and left red skin beneath.

If one could foretell the future, a second visit
to the Isles of Scilly would likely be fraught

with tragi-comic episodes: missed connections, stumbles
through sand on arthritic hips, nights condensed

into pills and liniment instead of dances and sailing,
a wry and rueful reassessment of finances.

Again, I look at this hat, holding it in my hands.
It feels like a Gulf current wind bending Soleil D'Or flowers.