- by Jon Moore -
Traffic on Wharf Road
It’s seven-thirty
Me, early poet
Hell, I don’t know it
Cormorants fly by
Dive and disappear
‘neath Fall foggy skies
Snatch chow
Reappear
Beaches barren
Save one lone gull
On Stinson spit
And there ain’t no swell
Overhead a rumble
Airplanes they fall fast
Keep an ear, cuz it ain’t clear
Fog’s still in, but it won’t last
A new cormorant sits
The lone gull flits
All wings stretch wide
Then launch into a lofty ride
Right here today on the Bo Bay
No comments:
Post a Comment