The Ocean, Still

Can you see the ocean still
At high tide? Do you remember
The windless harbour poised to spill

Over piers and pilings and fill
Our ears with hollow timbres?
Can you see the ocean still?

See black-backed gulls wheel and mill
While the western sky drips amber
The windless harbour’s poised to spill

Over the worn horizon’s sill
At spring tide in late September?
Can you see the ocean still?

See waves begin to form high hills
Of secrets cold and grey and sombre
A windless harbour’s poised to spill?

Do you see the low capes crumble
In dreams you refuse to remember,
Can you see the ocean still?
The windless harbour poised to spill?

 

The Ocean Still

 

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Cliches, Gulls, Harbour, John MacKenzie, John MacKenzie Poetry, Language, Memory, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Process, South Shore, The Sea, The Sky, Tide, Villanelle, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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