Someone, in some future, will think of us.
Sappho of Lesbos


Crest-helmed soldiers in night-grey waves run
Across the mud-flats at the bobbing buoy.
From the screen of racing clouds deploy
Screaming wings, the vanguard of the Sun.
The night must yield, and across the bay
From the lighthouse, scanning sea and strand,
Pallid beacons lick the deckchairs, the sand,
And muffled yelps, ducking in the spray.

At the fishery, dogs prick their ears,
Exhaustion clasps an aching knee and squats.
Tied to moorings rock the skiffs and yachts.
“T’was rehearsed for us a billion years
Before this ocean rolled:” same tar drenched skeins,
Same hotdog vendor trundling to this stand,
Same sporadic raindrops puncturing the sand,
Same eastbound clank of grey commuter trains.

Quietly the couple waits to see the day
And braves the nippy air. In massive hordes,
Seals besiege the surf and stretch towards
The unborn Sun colossal shapes of grey.


© - 4/01/2003 - by michael sympson, all rights reserved
  


 
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Proprietary Notice: © – 04/10/2003 – by michael sympson. text may be downloaded only for personal use, provided all copies retain the copyright and proprietary notices. No material may be modified, edited or taken out of context. Quotes are limited to ten lines and never without retaining the author’s name. Any commercial use in advertising or publicity requires permission in writing by the author's estate.