The Quincy Marsh 

The gravel path 
Winds through the  
Brush to the Old 
Sailors Home Burial 
Spot, surrounded by 
Salt marsh and dark water, 
Golden grasses, crimson 
Sumac, yellow oak, a 
Perfect little patch of 
Brilliant green set into 
The marsh by the bay’s  
Shore, these were not 
Lost in violent tempest, 
They had their homecoming,  
Grew old, lived and worked  
This patch of earth, grew 
Beans, squash, and corn, 
Dug clams in the old man 
Early dawn hours, gathered 
Together for autumnal feasts 
Year after year, long past 
The boatswains trilling, the 
Ship’s bell’s calling, drawn 
Ever together, tired old men, 
Finally falling in, row upon 
Row, as in their youth that  
Must have long since fled, 
When winter came they  
Still dreamed of tumultuous 
Spring, waking from silent 
Meandering garden walks, 
To unforgotten fiery trials, 
Bourne faithfully together,  
To their unremarkable 
And quiet end, mingling 
Here with milkweed 
And cat-tails and 
Whispering harbor 
winds. 


©Dave Keefer

 
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