My tide is running high:
should I leap, the waves will
part their ranks to catch me.
In pink-tinged dusk, the sky,
full of starlings roosting,
calls me back home to sleep.
Should I wait for the wind,
will my dreams wait with me,
your smile be still for me?
Sun, moon rise, birds flutter,
the eternal wheel turns.
Is there peace in stillness?
I cannot hear your voice
above the ocean’s roar,
see your face through the spray.
Poised on the brink, I hear
winds of time blow, waves break:
my tide is on the turn.
I can’t remember what I called this poetry form based on the number three: three stanzas of three lines each, each line three times three syllables, three rhymes, one in each stanza. It can be called a trinity for the sake of giving it a name.
There are voices in the wind tonight,
Weaving threads of dark among the light,
Waves beat on the cold shore out of sight.
Lamentations fill the starlit air,
Rushes cringe beneath the moon’s harsh glare,
And you have lost the sunlight in your hair.
Hands reach out to snatch a falling star
And fall back empty for the sky’s too far,
The hole I patch with heartstrings leaves a scar.