Nightfall Bay

THE wind went with the sun. Two yellow stars
Like daffodils hang from the sickle moon.
Now evening’s salty fingers probe the scars
Of memory, but dreams will heal them soon.
The hill-ringed bay, remote, unvisited
But by this glimmering, white sloop, is balm
To him who found no peace until he fled
From human turmoil to primeval calm,
And now stands, leaning slack against the mast,
Watching his cigarette smoke drifting gray,
While phantoms from his overcrowded past
Come back from years ago and miles away.
How still it is! The echo of a sigh
Makes the trees tremble between sea and sky.