By Brooks

The dark
harbors quiet trust

Wind croons through high trees
and joins the tides
to shove debris and treasure
beyond the water line

Following the edges
of each wave my thoughts
lose content

Loon feathers,
deep black with white spots,
are caught
between round wet rocks 

Raven's feet cut
crisp frost into words
of a language
I am only just learning

Fog unites
with moist earth
in wait
for fading dark
to expose morning

Tides, light and raven
teach the rhythm
of this island.

©2003 by Brooks

Posted in Poetry |