Jeffrey Hull

© 2005 Nina Camic All rights reserved.
Like teardrops on a dewy grass,
   Like dry leaves in the fall–
As soft as cats the Sundays pass
   And don't say much at all.

The plodding weeks mark turning moons
   As months build years in stone;
And pirate Time hoards his doubloons
   And counts his cache alone.

The ages reach and beckon me,
   The tides have laid their plot;
They tug my vessel out to sea
   And bid me tarry not.

The naked masts are barren trees
   Their yards and rigging moan,
But winter breeze awhile agrees
   The sailing to postpone.

So here ashore and here once more
   Cold Sundays grind like stones;
Their grist the days I can't restore,
   Their toll these aching bones.


© 2005 Jeffrey Hull

"Everything is what it is, and not another thing." Rev. Joseph Butler, English philosopher 1692-1752.

THIS POEM NEEDS NO RE-WRITING IN MY OPINION.