Remember when these days that roamed
like us from shade to cove and again,
and again, these days that seemed to rove
in step with us — the still sun
yawns and rests its head on paws,
the bark next door more muffled than
in coming months when sound, cloud
are sharper, hard, dark — but for now
remember when the tern won’t
turn south, not north, not south, just here,
and the flood tide won’t let us out;
the rigging in the boom that wants
to call the bow to windward depths
can’t muster more than a clank.
No wind, no lee — the sun has no shame —
these days that never seem to end.