How oft upon soft death of day
We scan the fading fell
Of motifs pinkly borne away
On twilight’s hill and dell
And oft, the hour, doffed of light
Seems gentler in near dark
Where dirge of day and birth of night
Pastoral leas embark
The heart is like a sailor, oh,
On seas that surge within
A monumental ebb and flow
Beneath frail veil of skin
Where oft upon soft death of day
The undertow of years
Can move thought’s bark through darkling splay
To spill salt fray in tears
How uncommon this common path
That none yet all have tread
To stand on tinseled aftermath
Of light with lowered head
Where coral-purple choirs play
An intangible hymn
As oft upon soft death of day
We sense Time growing dim
The more and less of life and love
Runs through the hour at hand
Where we are at the mercy of
Something or Someone grand
Where oft upon Soft Death of Day
We hear without a sound
The tiptoe of Untrodden Way
Weave harbors underground
© Janet Martin
We never know what a day will bring!
Thoughts and prayers with those in Portugal
where wildfires claim many lives.
