On These waning spring days
I am a lone bird wheeling jagged edges
of ancient cliffs above icy cold waves
of a rough Dover sea.
My feathers gleam in the beam of
the lighthouse where gentle swells
pulse against fragile bones that in
blue dreams you hold tenderly
in your palm like a rare shell.
We have abandoned the lover’s cottage
that seems to lean closer to the sea
waiting in vain at the tide swept shore.
The moon and lantern have ceased
Still each time I pass by I tip my wing.
Art by R. Simon