(Poem by Wendy Howe )

The cliff offers her a stone seat
trimmed with flowers and grass.
She sits there perfumed, watching the light
walk on water, bless fishing boats
and prompt sea gulls to turn back
crisp corners of sky.

Last night, stars numbered the hours
and those hours became pages
recording her loneliness.
She flowered palest white
at 3 a.m, when no ideas
echoed clear as the harbor bells
warning of strange spirits or dreams.

Even they would have provided
welcome company, their influence mirrored
in her pen. She needed to write, provoke drama..
Only her hair, long and lemon-showered in fragrance
unnerved the darkness, igniting
a vital sheen. Everything else was cold
and numb as the coastal rocks.

This morning she remembers her struggle
and gives her breath to the sea wind
hoping it will drift and dissolve into words
that roll in on the fog's moonlit tongue.

Another voiceless night and her mind
will burn in madness, a flamboyant stuttering
Of torches that line the pier.

© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.
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