12-09-2013, 01:46 PM
When morning winds had not yet come,
nor sun’s first glow turned blue the line
which restless stars go to and from,
I woke to night’s warm air divine.
I walked the docks of shanty pine,
the harbor fast asleep and still.
No motors droned: the bay a shrine
of solitude. That was, until,
a diesel’s gears began to whine
and cloud the sacred breeze with plumes.
Now trucks arrive. Their floodlights shine,
and men pour out as well as fumes.
But I untie my skiff, unknown,
and slip away to sea: alone.
nor sun’s first glow turned blue the line
which restless stars go to and from,
I woke to night’s warm air divine.
I walked the docks of shanty pine,
the harbor fast asleep and still.
No motors droned: the bay a shrine
of solitude. That was, until,
a diesel’s gears began to whine
and cloud the sacred breeze with plumes.
Now trucks arrive. Their floodlights shine,
and men pour out as well as fumes.
But I untie my skiff, unknown,
and slip away to sea: alone.