( After Robert Frost )
Long gardens behind the sea,
grass, then stones before the waves
that are nothing now in the early
morning of this summer day,
in the quiet washing of the ground swell,
the low, vast shuffling.
There is a distant little bell ringing
on the horizon’s open well
with that hint of a haze like a mind
resting in its own breath.
And there is this full, sweet
aroma in the gardens, a lingering
you have fed for ages.
expecting a myriad of stages.
Oh, it’s too vague and too great to tell,
songs spread like the ground swell
and have been seeping, seeping well.
And are still here, here and untold
after a whole life’s lull
and all the ghosts’ gold.