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Point of Dew

these words are not mine, only
borrowed lines from befores and everafters
the shadowy forms of pantomimes in painted shades of light
unconscious seas calling from my sleeping ship of many sails
wandering as if lost over and over the dreamy deeps of years and thought
enraptured engines singing through flowering foamy greens of summer
gangplanks lined with rabbit holes, wonder shall we ever land?
'just ask our captain Alice, yes do go ask, Alice.'
I made these words for you conjured whole from dervish winds
churned in the passing foam caravan of whale tails hook and line
now is much too late to change our minds so early in the sudden calm
look there an isle of wast appear antedate of oil and balm
let castaway bow anchor ties rites tropical adieu
savages seem gentler here one does as one may do,
temperatures in point of dew. . .

Poetry by Chaucer Whethers