Going Home to a Quiet Town

Harbor mist circles the Methodist spire
as if seeking salvation,
then slowly drifts downward
lending a sheen to streets
cobbled in continuous mosaic.

Quiet meets the eye, the ear.
Time, passing without a sound,
weaves sentences out of silence.
Sea salt carries them out
with a kiss.

Meekly the paint curls
on white clapboards accepting
their fate. If this is punishment
for living too long, how gracefully
they age.

Hydrangeas soften the impact
of echoes. Memories merge
in the whispering breeze. Lore has it
that if you linger too long in this peace
you become one with the mist.

5 thoughts on “Going Home to a Quiet Town

  1. F. G. M.

    “Time, passing without a sound,
    weaves sentences out of silence.”

    Le temps qui passe
    sans un bruit
    et qui pourtant
    fait parler le Silence

    wonderful lines!

    Amitiés, F.

  2. Frédéric,

    It is so beautiful in French. Thank you!!

    I must admit that is my favorite line in the poem.

    You are so very much appreciated,

    Amitiés,

    Sarah

  3. Pingback: The Sound of the Sea | Pitching Pennies Poetry

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s