BILL PRINGLE

PUSHING PAINT


farmpainting

DEACONS MOOR

Along the shore.
On deacons moor.
The silent sit and listen.

The surf rocks are rolling.
The undertow is hissing.
Only the memories are missing.

The fog patrols the shoreline.
A foghorn chants its mourning.
The walkers heed its warning.

A hurried race
To leave this place
As if the pale light might be harming.

A spruce tree appears above the fog.
A rider on a hidden nag.
His tunic flapping like a flag.

He herds the walkers by the trees.
They all march back to the seas.
Carried on an offshore breeze.

Suddenly the moon took the place where they were sitting.
And just as fast as in a flash the night had been rewritten.