Georgian Narrative

The waves wash

To the shore

As with ages gone before.

And westerly wind

Gives posture

To the pine.

And the gulls laugh

As they float

With a heckling

Sort of note.

Oh dear Voyageur.

Might you have

Days like mine.

One small Rocky Isle

Stands out.

One lone Pine

As if devout

Recalls thunderstorm

That took away

His Twin.

Feeding on the lichens crude

And by precious Sun

Renewed

He has wed the Rock

And all her tales within.

Grey and blue and green

All mixing

With red evening sun

Transfixing.

Richer view, no mortal

Eyes have ever seen.