 |
|
 |
|
In mourning, seafog
Makes small things visible.
Pearls cling to petals.
Pine needles are fringed with glass.
The sea breaks against rocks.
Heaving back, it breaks again.
What does the wild rose know of its beauty?
Have you any idea what you've given me?
|
|
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon
|
|
|
|
