AND NO ONE SITS AT TABLES
As night submits to day
along the shore by slow degree,
and buttery glowing quayside lights
begin to melt and lapping waves
create their complex harmonies
which offer no translation.
And from the lonely hills
where bustle knows no currency,
the pleading bleat of Wiltshire Horn
compete with sacred tolling bells
ignored by those of unbelief
as night submits to day.
From serried ranks of scented pine
the sinuous fingered shadows point
to where the tired roisters sleep
in quiet restful sanctuary
behind their shuttered window panes
and no one sits at tables.
Michael Edwards© August 2016