|Wheat Field in Rising Sun, Van Gogh|
posted for Magpie Tales by Tess Kincaid
In the cool shade of the boat house,
scanning the reach in a blue brim
hat, book on my lap, all was floating:
thick clouds teasing patches of blue sky,
cattails nodding to blue-flag, daisies
dancing with buttercups in the breeze.
A cheerful symphony of chirps, tweets
and twitters - flap of eider ducks and
slap of salt water on silver schist ledges.
Mussel shells strewn on stepping stones
into the cool watery passageway, broken
by the gulls, sharpened on the rocks.
The tide takes a turn - so loud now - bell
clangs out there, somewhere, breeze wraps
around me, sun hides and I'm cool - too cool.
A call for homage to strange powers of the sea.
All is silver now - clouds and reach - steel
in the west, symphony of silence - mist.
The climb back up to the white cottage
at the top of the meadow is steep on the path
past the skeleton tree, two arms reaching out
for the crows that caw at dawn; up past the
bolted rhubarb where Mary will pick a few
sweet stalks to make a tart tonight.
field, skeleton tree and Eggemoggin Reach.