A cypress impresses its scorched silhouette against
thin scrim of mist, drifting white clouds.
Pallid sunshine trickles through a ragged hole in late
summer sky; its wan reflection bleeds across distant waves.
At this hour, horizons are opaque, geography speculative,
landmarks, activities of the living, all concealed.
A lift of blue ridge could be nothing more than compounded
shadow, blurred mirage of a passing ship’s bow.
Certainty is delusional, a chancy gamble until
This is about a fine as a poem can be, tight and tough.ReplyDelete