June 14, 2019
Photo by Clayton Nottleman
A Poem by Melanie Black
Whether it be high or low tide
I go to the wetlands often
and search the western horizon
for that blazing line of light.
I am rapt in thought as the wind
whips my hair into my face,
burning tears flow from fire-struck eyes
as the herons shadowy wings
pass me by, onward over the sea.
The buoys dance in tidal flow.
I hear the echo of the bells
calling to my heart which breaks
colored fragments on the shore.
I know that I’ll leave everything behind
as my body lays among the flowers
and floats to Avalon at last.