The stars were thronged, a gold festoon,
As storms here trumpet Winterís blast,
Where comets stream out to the vast
Under an amber sickle Moon.
Upon the cliff face there he stands
Above the sea where screaming gulls,
Veer moonward white as bleaching skulls,
He dreams once more the fabled lands.
A galley and each rowing oar
Creak in this storm on icy swells,
Roiled by some dark magicianís spells
Drawn toward a haunted lethal shore.
Upon the deck, red-cloaked, he steers,
Into the storm. His steely stare,
Surveys that cold and pagan air,
To mark some lone, uncharted pier.
The combers crash against the stones,
He dreams of war, the Iliad,
He found no balm in Gilead,
No succor in the crumbled bones.
Perhaps he offered up one prayer
When huge Deathís hand had smote him then,
To cull him from the world of men,
And past the stars he met God there?