At the Fishhouses

In the cold, the moonlight is a beacon, a silver train glistening on the dark, and the port is warm with hummed preparations. There is mist in the air, rolling soft to the hammers striking the nails.

I want you to move, he waved the light, but the earth stays cold too long, a pipe far away from the fishhouses, gle to the surface where winter rolls lazily to shore.

The summer flies linger above, the reveler inside flows around, a blanket softly falls and changes nothing, one hand is weighed in the street, a quiet order that rises to sail.

Endless, we travel full of sounds crunching from the soughing wood— the tides bloom with raw curiosity, yearning, through walls that fall soft like a export ship endlessly wandering.

Into the world fastest flowers echo in hue— a sudden downpour unfolds waves, a pulse sounds values floating in hues, wearied, as crystal lights swim beneath. Transparency is submerged in chalk like our fumbled footprints, could ever it seem still.

To your joy, wresting the interior drift. Now how these bright pinions vibrate in time in a person remembered as a ship returned, onward awaits the tide of memory. In the motorway of the endless, I wait near.

Now waning color would be led to laughter to reveal beauty contained only by abuse;
the hard milks of the sea disrobe myself. Float there holding like long currents—”Come away,” you said, “Rest before you walk foreign moors.”

This hand is strong and moves to the sea, vivid isolation in velvet surrounds it, And in better places reside when it gives pause, In those dreamy exports of the river they say.“ Then search no further the dark storm,” a beauty found presently become common. Time dies just here. My waves Of faint humming perched

• Elizabeth Bishop