Rachel Lyman Field
Poems of Rachel Lyman Field
North of Time
We sat together in the small, square room,
Late sunshine fell across the kitchen floor
In yellow patches. I could hear the boom
Of turning tide along the island shore.
'Why, yes,' the old man shifted in his chair,
'That's Grandfather's own chart hung by the door,
And that's his compass on the shelf up there.
He knew the world and foreign parts before
Most Island boys had learned their A.B.C.'s,