A Waxen Sea

Inter Arma

Placid is the toll of the iron bell
As its resonance washes against the hills
And settles into the dry beds and knotted groves
Of the sun-parched valley at rest below.

The morning rises guardedly
Over a stirring countryside,

Illuminating the far off sea.
A waxen shield, horizon's protector.

As I stagger up from the sun-bleached tiles,
Where in night's revelry I laid my head,
I lean against a rusting lattice and compose my thoughts,
My waking eyes held spellbound by a waxen sea.

I raise my hands to the sea beyond,
Intoxicated by the winds that whip up from her fair shores.

I'll mind any road, be they tranquil or pestilent,
Through knotted, olden grove or stone-strewn ruin,
To wander her fair shores,
To be adrift in the azure,
To covet the sea breeze,
To daydream upon her dunes.

All in due time

Placid is the toll of the iron bell
As its resonance washes against the hills.



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