Oh to see the sun as once it shone

in splendor glorious, ancient as the age,

the regal glint reflected from on high

in clouds of white: a pure and perfect stage

–

Oh to hear the songs that once were sung:

the trilling notes of brass and wood and string—

the echoes soaring skyward with the breeze

created voices carried on the wing.

–

But now the night mourns, barren of the clouds

and moonbeams travel unreflected down.

The earth sits silent, tarnished in the gloom

and all the sounds are slowed, and dulled and brown

–

The mourning beach seemed washed in early grief,

as watery sunlight trickled through the gray.

Wood lay drifted, lumped upon the sand:

emblematic of a shattered age.

–

And there a mound of tufting white exposed

a mountain foam, of wisp and sift of sea.

A little piece of once and living cloud

and seemed it drifted now and here to me

–

And scattered far, the more there seemed to be,

the small, the large, the white and sanded tan.

It seemed a thousand pieces of the sky

had fallen dead and washed ashore to land.

–

 But as I looked a ray of golden light

fell upon a guilt of tarnished foam,

and seemed to flare a thousand diamond gleams

that danced in pink and blue and gleaming chrome

–

As sudden as it came the light degleamed,

and left behind a whispish shadow cry.

But now the hope, the promise from away

that some day (soon) the clouds would join the sky.