The salty sea laps the rock solid shores of a dozen isles or more
The multitude of wind marching Jerivás, outgrowing the other shrubs and palms
Mostly the bay sea is calm, autumn has rarely any storms to deliver
Oyster beds cling to the natural platform tidelines secretly performing in their shells
humming as the waves roll over and with jagged shell formation cutting anything that treads
thereon.
The Mango and the Guava shy to the salty surrounds, grows less and bear little fruit
Yet the all hardy banana that golden tropical rhizome eats the shrub space till the shoreline
Yellow and purple burst out of the undergrowth humble shrubs that face the saltwinds
The township is a fat brick skeleton that somehow maintained it's colours
The imperial palms always carrying thick bunches of hanging seeds
A town full of Inns a modern fantasy of an old pirates village
And mysteries lie there still, from lost gold of the slave colonies
To the mists that the ranges and hills breathe all the way to the islands
Almost keeping the town in the past
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