Is It Poetry
Under Cover Of Day
I opened it up the last the door,
here where I stand,
I am lost, I gaze out at the sea.
Just past the first row of standing stones.
A strong north wind it howls as it blows,
green foam across vast empty space.
Standing up, she is straight,
he is reaching out for love, night's veil
of those lost years.
She can't see past all of the clouds,
reciting incantations until he calls out.
From where all have waited to be called,
it is his last turn.
Three more turns of the wheel the spokes.
Lost in the void three more turns,
he knows that she has.
Ancient the muse said more than allowed.
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Comments about this poem (Under Cover Of Day by Is It Poetry )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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