|
Southern Poet's Goodbye |
Tonight, the low-
country crescent
moon, made shade
of blue by August cloud,
dangles dreary, angled
as if to frown farewell.
No perfumed purl
of jasmine-woven wind
performs to hear
the palmettos applaud,
nor sweeps through swamp
and street with tendrils
of magnolia and pine.
Across the harbor, homes,
hushed by the repose
of lamplight on the Battery,
fade into the freckled
face of gentle water.
Charleston, my muse,
she sheds a tear
as I drain my glass and lean
to kiss her goodnight.
Off Sullivan's, the shush
of sea-weep slips the isle
in sheets of shrill silence
and leaves her salted bitters
to foam upon my tongue.
copyright 2004
T.A.
Jennings |
