Still waters run deep…

A dream, a dream is it all

Dawn is dim once upon
The clear soft flowing water,
Its smooth round stones no longer deep,
No longer fair and flawless.

So once the rivulet sang for lovers souls
Softer than sleeps caresses,
Brighter than moon shadows waxed and waned,
Now sighs for love it cherished.

Sunless hangs the dark sky’s weight,
Cloud on cloud the storm winds veering,
Heaped on high, veiled with ominous vapor,
Lures and lulls subdued by drought,

Less mighty than the heaving of time or fate.
Now, clothed in dust-colored clay
Lying beneath wooded trees,
Warped and wrinkled, endures a woeful state.

It scorns the shore and leaves them free,
Strange as death, fair as life,
O sea-robbed November;
With once statelier semblance, now feigning.

Come early Spring, the white-winged Nor-Easter,
Snow doth melt and spurs the sea,
A dream, a dream is it all—sky, water, wind;
Rivulet, feel your rebirth, your slumber leaving.
(Fulfill with the pulse of diviner pleasure).

A dream, a dream is it all

Sea waters and a small unregarded sun

A desolate land that is lonelier than the
Salt-encrusted sea,
Far fields where weft of grasses lay beneath
Thick woven clouds,
Exhausted by the changing tides;
The marsh holds the wreck of its riches—
No shelter for fallen boats or fishers.

Far flickering sun and winds lacking breath
Offer no hope for waifs of Glaucous gulls,
Their thrall of flight hath sinned;
On wings of mercy they are relentless
In the wan sky where nightfall stands erected.

Late day the seawater is haggard; in her darkening
The sound of tiring carp, bass, bullhead,
Their breath fulfilled for a day,
Yet the hands of waves are not weary of giving,
Whitecaps lay the lash on until fish call in the billows.

Seawalls have no granite for girder,
No fortalice fronting its stand,
The reefs are less bank in its sands,
For the fishing boats have no surety to be
When the bank is abreast of their bows.

The dawn out of darkness is but one,
Out of waters that hurtle and crash,
No rest from the wind as it passes,
Where, hardly redeemed by the waves,
Lie thick among the grasses,
Scatheless across the sea.

As the souls of fisherman disburden
And clean of the sins they cast,
The sea life is guerdoned,
Its flesh the dust of wrecks.

Wave upon wave that the wind cannot
Number are lulled by the chimes of the tides
And here in the sea press drifting
Are the anchors of time—rusted fast and firm
In the marshes, the tomb of those denied.

The sun’s eye flashes to the sea’s live light,
Its warm lips breathe back to breaking clouds,
It kisses the wafted breeze; dense waves change
Under its colored arches, its caps are tipped with gold.

Miles and miles in leagues without a change, yet time
Forgotten, the sea’s borders deep as deep; its plumage
Sharp and soft—salt and splendid, gleams and glows.
Streak of glimmering shoreline, its steeples cleave the low
Bright sky; stern above, the dune hill ranges where life
Has ebbed, too fast its faith of heart was broken.

Sea waters and a small unregarded sun