Treasure Island

Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

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.

Submitted: Saturday, January 18, 2014

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