The birds and stars are going about
Their steady evening muse,
Free from culture – who could doubt?
And so far more in tune.
I gazed ‘pon the shores and ‘pon the brooks
And ‘pon the tide drawn rills,
O ‘pon the scattered shells I looked
To capture with the quill.
How I wish I could descend
Into those curling blues, the glens
Of corralled rock and salty lanes
Down to where the sea gods reign.
Alas! My lines of inky verse
Would surely take their flight
And drain away to bot’mless depths
That never see the light.
Our thoughts are fragile things.