Moving Lights

Boywise once on a rickety pier,
I saw, as night drained down the bay,
Two moving lights that floated on
The burning edge of the dying day —
Two moving lights: a phantom ship
Sliding silent as a cat;
The sucking water round the piles
Was whispering with a wet flat slap.
Those moving lights like floating thoughts
Rode lightly through the whispering dark,
As enigmatic as God’s smile;
The night bloomed black, with looming stars —
These stars that here above my head
Trace their ancient patterns tonight:
Still moving lights, traversing still
The wavering dark of my dim sight.