Plymouth
	(for GnomeSec)

Waves slap against the rocks;
We dance out on our toes
To the end of a pier
That has no ropes.
The ducks huddle
And the seabirds soar
And the sun is a distant fire.
The gray and the wind
Are a new perfection
In these days made of moments
For your memory only.

I cannot hold your laughter in my ears,
It fades with the spring-time chill;
If I tell the picture
That it must last for years-
Maybe it will.

Dancers in a cranberry bog,
Tourists spying lighthouses,
Watching the seagrass swell
As the tide seeps between the rocks.

Broken shells are rising,
Foam is in the wind;
We really should be going
But we dare the day to end.

History is an imaginary thing,
And so is time.
Once only you and I were real,
Now only in my mind.


--Megan Morris, meikundayo@yahoo.com