The Guardian

Streaking shades, striate
the sky, birthed
of withered night.

She stands, blushed
with
ascending fire.

Her salt-kissed feet testify
to whispered secrets of
bashful waves.

Near the lighthouse,
she remains,
weathered hope sculpted
in stone.

The marble sings. Ships
turn away.

The
tower light? Or
her gaze
that men use
as guide.

Moonlight reveres and dusk
conceals
her tears.

1986

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Thoughts and Comments

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©2005-2010 Barbara L.M. Handley

Contact Barbara Handley at mailto:ardea@flipsideb.com

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