The gentle wind blows upon my sail,
pushed along by this low wind.
The ship sails slowly
then, increasing, fallen upon my arms
that I must use as barriers
before these breaking waves,
Oh, my poor cows.
The south! “Oh my god,” said the mink.
“What time is it?”
And then ran off after …
I lie at rest
where some do fail.
Can time repent of all its slaves
and not grow passionately stale?
You ask for a penny for some gum:
These birds I hear at early dawn
are still a voice, a broken vail.
I buy a thread for the sail,
and save a pen, the pen I found
We look at owls.
So now I call you up to say
I lie at rest among all these pleasures.
Be merry, be merciful!
Is this sitting of a person high?
No, but only seemed to make
a sister’s sigh more precious
in the sheaves we glean.
Things thought through,
go with hope, a feeling of substance give
So, with the earth all freely part.
To think of mornings shared.
To think of soap and labor shared,
Of all that we can say and say.
“And so, what time is it?” Colin asked.
“Only time to think of you,” she replied.
“Time to think of Marge and so many quiet days.”
So now I have time for sailing:
Time to love and time to think.
I lie at rest. Be merciful. Be merry!
Colin Fine
April 13, 1983
(c) Marc D. Beaudin