Too Late
He dances on the shore,
white shirt in hand,
and waves and waves.
The gold," he cries,
"I.ve found the gold
and ruby stones of deepest dye."
Heedless, the cross-masts
sink from sight.
Salt-water laps the shore.
Tears trickle down his cheeks,
for now he knows the reason why
white bones bestrew the golden strand
And vultures squat
so patiently upon
yonder head of bald-bare rock.
Copyright © Julian Scutts | Year Posted 2017
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment