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
-
Author:
Michael Edwards (
Offline) - Published: December 29th, 2016 11:20
- Comment from author about the poem: And another of my abstracts to accompany one of my heavier poems.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 62
- Users favorite of this poem: P.H.Rose
Offline)
Comments7
very well done Michael. great visuals! ww
Thanks WW
I love your line about the pine! Very nice!
Thanks for commenting WriteBeLight
Absolutely brilliant
I love this...
Making it a favourite
Well done sir....
Thanks so much PHR - you've made my day - I feel really flattered
like this a lot. great write dude,
so pleased - you're a kind man.
you're welcome, my friend.
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