Waiting in Swanage

 

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.

2 thoughts on “Waiting in Swanage

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