[Still can’t think of new plots. So it’s back to poetry.
Sir Thomas Beecham once explained to an audience that the reason he was going to conduct a certain major piece was because it sounded pretty. Whether on not I succeed, I am mostly interested in pretty sounds here; so, if you bother to read my verses below, there is no subtext, and nothing for analysis. But I do hope the reader likes how the verses sound.]
Where my chains fade down to the ocean floor
Where the pots are shocked and rolled,
The fetid bait’s dull gold
Is shining out its lure
To stone-bred eyes, eyes born to brine and cold.
Leave then these marble acres calm,
Calm as morning ever saw.
Permit the reeking lure
To work its gradual charm
On that strange life of rock and cave and fissure.
Tomorrow morning, breathless still,
Sun tingling on these perfect bays
Through lifting haze…
Zephyr and Aeolus, ease my ways,
Then, God of Weathers, fill
And shock my hull with the rattle and scratch of the crays!