Aubade

                                    for Edward Baugh

Flashing silk phantoms

from the promontory,  

when seen at dark  

rushing to their beds,

those lights corroding

over Navy Island,

never grow old.  

In two enamel basins,

fill water to wash overripe

stars, eaten without

second guess, worm

and all, from veranda

chairs, where no guilt

brims over, whatsoever. 

As frost, unknown, intimate

breath bursts hot its kind

silence. Get up, go greet

Errol Flynn’s ghost

at the empty footbridge,

leaning on the breeze.

Maroons hum out

of hills, restless as

unappeased trees,

ringing,

“Even days coming

are already gone

too soon,” then return

before the river’s lustre

hides their voices

and immeasurable

slow leaves bring

down our morning.