A Comfort
to the Restless, Plum Island |
HALF-LIGHT Ellin Anderson Half-light, dissolver of cohesiveness, You drift between the ocean and the yard With windblown sand, gentle and lusterless, Hitting a painted trellis with the hard Brilliance of salt, spent where the tendrils hold Glory of morning, indigo and gold Revealed in thickets of viridian; You skim the harbor’s gilded reach, and then Where tides part from the beach, you cast a glance That blinds us with its dulling radiance. You float a wall of pearly fog at me, Mocking the way an early twilight pulls Legerdemain within the range of greys, And draw those tones to you so that I see The strokes of white but not the whirling gulls Charting a broken circle through the spray; While roses add their colors to the view, Chiming in coral as the sun burns through: “Love, love,” they toll, rusting in the sea air, Coaxer of appetites and of salt-hay. Now, thrown heavily, the breakers roll; Slow threnody, the glassy waves unscroll, Hissing out thunder, as the undertow Tangles the copper lattice of my hair, And whispers to me: “Did you think you knew The reason for a shadow’s ebb and flow, What the light gives, and what it takes away?” |
|
© 2001 by Ellin Anderson. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be copied or used in any way without written permission from the author. |