In heavy fog, the lantern lit,
the lighthouse shines through window panes.
The brine too deep to measure time,
From once his occupation came.
From water's edge my father's ghost
looms crisp in air when Spring played host.
Lazy weeks commanding Sunday's
gloried moments fresh in April,
when children's faces glowed like bliss
as wise men counted change.
This was his haunting past with gods,
discussing Romeo's sad odds.
The lambs will lie in pure pastures,
the dairy filled with milking cans.
When shall he go back to his love,
beckoning his return?
His past whispers to windy hills,
his voice alive at evening's chills.
Matched by life's gifts at Easter tide
you view his frame from a church pew
For years the stuccoed Spanish grace
hid him close to the sea.
Little mercies stopped pain to rise
when finding his heart-felt goodbyes.
© Copyright 2008 Feather Duster--Novel Writing (UN: secretvick at Writing.Com).
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