journal of a writing man
Work in Progress
Waiting
The evening has turned over to dusty gold,
burnishing the loch's quiet surface clean away
till water and air merge in a kiss, surfaceless,
brazen together in the long waiting moment
before sunset becomes gloaming, breath holds,
the deep waters steal the essence of the sky,
the mountains sigh themselves to granite sleep,
and the haven slides safe into indigo night.
Then the tide shall have risen to meet the dark.
The liquid slip, slap, slap against the black tar hull
will meet with engine putter and the rattle of chains,
sounding echoes on unseen walls and cooling stone.
And when the anchor is slipped the little ship will venture out,
make a silvery path to the sea, sing its song to the moon.
John Bailey
Somerset, April 27, 2002
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