poetry archive

it was a tall young oysterman
gone are the three, those sisters rare
our pleasant moments fly
passing through huddled and ugly walls
do you remember
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
there were three in the meadow by the brook
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
when night drifts along the streets of the city
still thirteen years
wrap the earth in cloudy weather
up to her chamber window