high on estuarine
that long wait upon the tide’s slow breath
until the blush mottles the cadaver night
and the ghouls hoot ‘return them soon’
we stand transfixed as today whispers
that yesterday also whispered in
the turn of the tide’s mud pack
when the moon in all its beauty falls
cold upon the castle walls and the calls
of the owls hooting in the stark trees
where not a breath of the wind’s call
disturbs the night slide of the sea
back there beyond the black point
tread carefully now for
the salt marsh is stilled by wet
and the things that shine are not stilled
the mood moves everything until
well you know how it is
enough said about the thoughts
gathering at your hearth’s comfort
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