Evening closes down on what has been day,
even at the height of summer.
Long before dark a waiting stillness
remembers how short the year is.
Brief gulls over this edge of land
have no song, really.
Finding a voice for stone, perhaps,
is left to us.
Silence is as much as we need.
The bright bay lies a mile away
across a jumbled fealty of town –
truth worn down to that not proclaimed.