What might I say, pondering these dark shores,
where elemental waves lift their steep crests,
from inward sadness? Despite rage's pause;
and though nor sun nor moon tug a white dress,
the strange waves break; and scattering they tread
those shingles, shush their disconsolate curse,
just thinking on our thinking; and how worse
could hardly come from passion's lovely bed.
A blight that deep forever longs to claim
is on that dark tide of an empty call.;
and death the only creature, gaunt and tall
to stride low foreshores of that bitter drain.
And yet I cannot think that by intent
this world was darkened, nor its living spent.
YOU ARE READING
Gifts and Shards Vol 2
PoetryThis is the second and final volume of 'Gifts and Shards'. This takes us from the second month to now well over three years later, though there were many C poems in the collections tracking the seasons. There are no similar stories!
