Deserted wharves stayed with the chill,
Empty reflections pulled around shapes
remembered between arm and chest,
Watching a winter’s quiet sunlight.
Distant sounds came with a tide
to rest beside the fresh face, that
enthralled wandering spirit,
Brought home to pace on the docks.
Songs called from the birds,
Howling, waiting, like the past;
Reminders with ever present voice
passing beyond tired horizon.
Visions fade with a coming fear and
memories from words that touched,
In the perfection of brief moments,
Recorded only through words, too short.