Silent wharf.
Solid.
Tiny breeze – I only feel
Its barely breathing voice.
Hardly wrinkles on the water.
(Like my skin where it met the
Bed
On a pensive, soothing
Evening. Dreamless.)
Rain drops (or are these
Tiny caresses of moisture
Simply the fleeting tears
Of a world already gone,
But memories lingering?)
Inlet blue-gray – yet warm,
Inviting me
To roll gently into its arms,
Wrapped softly,
Music of silence. Quiet rapture.
The breeze (I thought it so soft
So quiet)
Touches, ever so lightly, with
An icy, ephemeral finger.
Draws my mind back to this wharf,
This here and now.
Lets in the people sounds.
They must have been there
All the time?

Wharf

Norma J Hill

April 5 1980

 

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