Caedmon's Bistro


Welcome, traveler. Come on in and relax. My name's Caedmon, and I own this place. It's just a replica of an Irish pub on a small side street in New York, south of Houston. That's why this area is called SoHo. As for me, I'm a writer and an artist when I'm not tending bar.

It's not very busy here in the summer, so I head down to the Keys. I do a lot of fishing and hang out in Sloppy Joe's in Key West. I know it's a little campy, but it's Hemingway's old hangout; I guess I go hoping that something he had will rub off on me. It's hot as Hell down there, but it's the off season, and I don't have to wait in a line of tourists for a dinner table or for a boat charter. I don't dislike tourists as individuals, but when they're traveling in a pack, they can turn downright mean, especially if they're spending more than they planned.

I like the comment George Carlin made about them. He asked, "If it's called the tourist season. why aren't we able to shoot them?" I have a little house down there, tucked in a cluster of mangroves right by the water. I had it about ten years so I don't consider myself a "tourist," but the locals do.

That picture up above is one I took at the sunset on Islamorada last summer. It was a lot less crowded than Mallory Square in Key West. The only other one watching it with me was a lovely lady that I met . . . . Well, that's another story. I hated to leave her in September, but I had to get back here. I stopped in Stone Harbor, New Jersey on the return trip, but I couldn't get her out of my mind. I didn't sleep too well the first night. I was up before dawn and decided go down to the beach to see the sun come up. Maybe it was just to recapture that moment when she and I watched the sun set in Islamorada. What I remember, I set down in this poem called "Night Beach."

Night Beach
by Caedmon (a.k.a. Francis Eaden)

Water sliding up grey, satin sand,
dragged, soundlessly, back.
Rolling, crashing, spraying,
then again,
a white, laced coverlet pulled upon the land.

Loon-white light of stars and moon,
cold points balanced on curling forms:
They fall, leap, scatter in endless dance
before a somber audience of dune.

A primal world held half in shadow, half in light:
moon-white world of pearl.
Peopled with crouching shadow shapes that cling,
like lovers to the fast-receding night.

Breathless sounds, like skis,
on powder far away;
small armored bodies scuttling on the sand.

The crashing of westward-rolling waves that,
like cymbals, proclaim the coming of the day.

Frozen in phantom light,
the little world must stay.
Night creatures scurry home,
like worshipers from mass.
A lonely gull hangs silent in the sky,
then falls
and calls for all to come and prey.

(copyright Francis P. Eaden)

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