The Long Hours
What are we without the ride,
without the tumult of the sea?
vessels becalmed,
left in a dry dock of complacency.
How does the bird sing of the dawn,
or the eye glimpse what can again be seen,
without the silent journey
through the darkness of the night.
Courage to endure,
the silent spaces,
the calm and quiet waiting
of those somnolent places,
the long hours,
before the coming of the light.
© Richard Michael Parker 2012
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