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Click hereTo others she appeared anew each dawn,
trod her widow's watch above the sea
and cast her gaze along the jagged beach.
She did not look beyond the tide for me
among the ships that passed. At times
of dusky light when waking day triumphs
the stars perhaps she breathed my name
against the wind, shared secrets with the coast,
but always, so they told, withdrew
into the dewy glass. They say she
is a ghost. I am. There is nothing here
save a barren house, sand and sky
where gull cries herald shadowed flight.
She is the voice of fog, they whisper
when they turn away from close
and curious sight.
This poem was selected from Lit's archive of over 39,500 poems for inclusion in today's Archival Review.<br>
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to be a poem you'd find here at lit or written by someone who does not yet have a book! I don't think you could ever improve this poem. I hope you submit it to some magazine. It's perfect.
The voice of fog
blows whispers
on a dewy glass
transient pictures
before the dawn
burns them away
and i don't know much about form, but i do know that this stanza is what i like the best in this:
but always, so they told, withdrew
into the dewy glass. They say she
is a ghost. I am. There is nothing here
save a barren house, sand and sky
where gull cries herald shadowed flight.
overall you've got some great imagery angeline......nicely done......don