There's wine in the hold still to be tasted

but the moon races ahead on the sea

and this hull creaks an ancient grief of trees

felled limbed sent down to the yard

Of nests in caulked wood who can know

Beneath our toes here hurling down

a flower web stream of light gone

to water-moon glitter in a howling wind

But soon in the arms of a harbor

where we may remember the songs

of our mothers before we were born

this wine so unsettled

will come clear

We'll drink it and know

why we wanted so much and how light

this grief after all

Eugene Marckx

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