Poem: Still Waters

She stood on the pier, looking out from behind her oceanic eyes, riding the sad waves of her broken yesterdays.

The ship of tears had run a-ground on the cold shores of Cape Ferrat.

The fishermen where casting their lonely nets into the waters of lost promises.

And the winds of hope, which fled from the sails of 1,000 valiant vessels, were holding anchor in the bay.

Still waters.  Waiting.  Watching.

Photo: Petr Kratochvil

He rode alone, on a horse he named Forever, coming down from Shadow Mountain.

The valley of heartache was seen from the butte of regret.

The proud buffalo of the plain had been slaughtered by the sword.

And the winter of despondency, which had covered 1,000 sleepy pines, lay frosted in ice.

Still waters.  Waiting.  Watching

Photo: Dawn Hudson

She walked on the lonely country lane, a tree-lined path, to the village of forgotten dreams.

The smoke from the chimneys of dross could be seen 20 miles off.

Like gold refined in the fire, the hamlet was being renewed from the Grace that stoops down.

And the maidens within, once in mourners black, came dancing in white linen around the well-du-sac.

Still Waters. Waiting. Watching.

Photo: Petr Kratochvil

He sat on a grassy knoll, at the white shores of dover, in solitary reverie amid the fair clover.

The doves of the morning came circling round.

The waves of longing were heard crashing down, on the jagged rocks of fear.

And the sea breeze blew, sweeping away the misty din of yesterday, amid the sun-quenched cliffs of dover.

Still Waters. Waiting. Watching.