EDWARD BYRNE

 
 
WINTER NIGHTFALL IN A SEASIDE VILLAGE 


 

        I 

Above the bay, snow bleaches the hills 
        where they rise right into a drift of cloud 

cover. Even the lower crescents of terraces 
        that rim the coast are now powdered white. 

Throughout the village, chimney smoke 
        blows about madly.  All the flags along 

the marina snap in the wind, sounding 
        as sharp as those rifle-range shots on any 

summer afternoon.  Already, the lamps 
        are coming on in one window after another. 
 

        II 

As the day retracts its light, invites 
        still colder weather, from the warmth 

of our bedroom, the whole ocean inlet 
        opens before us like a natural pavilion, 

its shoreline nearly ringing the black 
        waters below and netting the darkness. 

Surging gusts moan through the eaves 
        and bend bared branches of seasonal trees 

scraping the rooftop, as the escaping sap 
        of fresh-cut wood sighs in our fireplace. 
 
 

[ First appeared in Evansville Review


 
 

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