At_Last

Sky G.F.E. McGuiness

She feathered the sky of purple down With pink across it broadly thrown Stitched of golden sunset tones.

Standing guard in silhouette Many trappings days beget

Greeting eyes, all, Lost in this surprise. Ever playful birds

Reflecting on the soggy sand, Motionless, moved, unheard. A rotted skiff that moans the evening chill, Hushed and still Stolen of their grassy whispers A trace of dunes in painted vespers Ensign clouds expound and pass Echoed on the sound

Whose ripples fix to glass Everything of God or man In awe, the artist's hand.

Yet, once the great sea temper sends Cyclonic monsters rending sun to blackened shreds Nothing stands in watch but wends

Quickly to survive the dread. Thus I see my nature's turn Of maelstrom's lightening burned. When a placid cove Of moving beauty holds the eye, And nothing stirs, I know the hand is hers.

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