The long eastern curve of our coast is preserved
By a series of barrier islands.
The marshes and reaches of these offshore beaches
Keep most storm surge from striking the mainland.
A few islands seem like the substance of dream,
Where fisher folk toil in a land out of time.
Ragged towns ringed by marshes show a life that is harsh as
Their streets of crushed oysters and lime.
Far different from these are the Islands of Ease,
Where white yachts and estates are the lures.
Before manicured yards stand security guards
With instructions to repel all tours.
These people aren’t better although they would rather
Spend time with each other, not you.
In compounds collected, aloof and protected,
They give “barrier” a meaning quite new.
They’re the crème they suppose, but in fact la mème chose,
So alike in their golfcarts and puces.
Round their sense of self worth, let us leave a wide birth
As they simmer like clams in their juices.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Just for the money, not you our me, honey... Nice Poem, Chuck... Colin J...