There is always a salty tang in the air
On these time warped island enclaves where
Time loops itself around the summer of love
Where you can still hear the cellophane being torn from Sgt Pepper’s
For the first time
And patchouli oil arrives in 45 gallon drums
To anoint tied dyed dervishes
Unconcerned with convention or shifting fashions
Hippie chicks and gumboot stomps still rattle the boards
In moss covered community halls
As loose tunes carom off moonbeams into midnights
Where memories bleed into one another
Passed around like joints on the back porch at the break
Where the tide is a constant presence
Lifting each rocky island up
Then washing it down
Where the rhythm of life is punctuated
By arrivals and departures of coastal ferries
Carrying 30 year old Volvos and even older punch buggies
On and off these islands of no return
Where homespun sweaters are more popular than yoga pants
And woodstoves bake solid loaves of love
Pungent with unadulterated truth
Where home means more than a place to sleep
But is a state of being in the moment
That wraps itself inside out with summery love
Garnished with unconnected freedom
And the sharp pull of the sea
David Trudel © 2013
createdavidt 
Love this–the sweaters, the bread. All of it has such a wonderful feel to it.
Thanks! The title phrase was in my mind for a day or so but I wasn’t sure which way to go with it. The Gulf Islands (between Vancouver Island and the Mainland) have been home to many counter-culture folks since the sixties and it often seems like time is irrelevant to many of them.