Read to me again
John Clare Stokes
What possible good was I
The aged poet called to her side
One of her end of days requests
Made no doubt in mad duress
What would she reveal
Would she tell of love in secrecy
Of trips to the beach by darkness
When all the world was sleeping
The setting moon, the rising sun
It knew us
A few starfish too
But that was about all
Holding the frail, withered hand
Warmth as of old still in the veins
The writing once so eloquent
The touch so tender
Parting the old, old friend
To my ear she began whispering
The dying words of a lover
Read to me again
Our poem of the ocean.
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