Wind would wend it, send it packing.
These seven years, vast seven seasons of sand,
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, then years, tears,
Have not seen woman ways acted upon them,
No pact, no good agreement with any man,
Nor alien conspiracy in the land,
The gentry of Ghost House.
No sign of suitor, sailor, dwells below, not ever,
Not even for a single night.
A light burns fervently, feverishly,
Unquenched, unqualified, unreserved,
A burning beacon set to true ship's return in waiting window.
From time to time a ghost ship skips in, skims and sports,
Shimmering mirage, evaporating vessel,
Never to be put to port, to rest.
And then a mast, a mist, long last,
A treasured ship is harbored,
Anchored beachward, forward wave-ward for its ground,
Found inlet cove,
Driven, lately shriven.
Ghost family wails on the roof, terrified with joy,
A spoil awaiting.
Were it not for the railing, they would fall.
(April 11, 1988)
