To Pacifica Poem by Michael Walker

The silver mists kiss us on the lips,
Rekindling our ocean-borne ardor
With the sea-spray which each siren sips,
The foreign water her only armor.

These clouds crowd upon the green arbor,
The breast enclosing secrets of the past,
Of souls who dwelt and died near this harbor,
Sailing towards the sunrise that will last.

But now is the time for the grey morning,
When brine and frying eggs both fill the air,
And the sky's grey's not the grey of mourning,
As children cross the creeks with flowers fair.

I'm pacified by you, Pacifica,
With whispers of 'Inter Mirifica.'