Milton
I went for a walk on the water
On a sunny Sunday afternoon,
To see what the sea had to offer,
What was washed up upon her dunes.
Colorful sandblasted bits of glass,
Seashells and tangled driftwood forms,
Hiding up in the marram grass,
Was all I was looking for.
Where sea sings with sand,
I met an old man
Looking out on the water,
Worn pencil in hand,
Exacting demands
From the sun,
The sand and the sea.
The wordsmith wielded his head full
Of words to be bound to his will.
His chewed pencil writhed, as it raged
At each word and syllable.
Torn notepad the cure
For the tangle of words
Still in search of their perfect phrase.
Now he paused to make note.
His brow laughed, then he wrote
These lines upon the page.
“There is so much more to see
Than meets the eye,
By sandy shore beneath
His mackeral Sky.”
“What? Only four lines.” I cried.
Only four lines yes,
Though so much more implied.
Look beyond the horizon, above seas so vast,
Holding hourglass sands in his timeless grasp.”
Reflecting then on the lines he had wrought
I said, “So that’s why you write!”
“Oh no, “ he ho hummed, as his mind overthought,
“Just to sleep well
… late at night.”