Marten Hoyle

Sandcastles Below the Waves Marten Hoyle

This dream is cold, and I am afraid of the dark. Youth's summer was gone and I viewed The yearning soul of solitude. The frozen lake; the stars and flowers Little white flowers that all were ours In fantasy only-when I was young And spoke sweet the nectar's tongue. We never speak. Did we speak before? I dream, I dream of you now the more That buried are years of absence From one I prayed to be my prince. On the bosom of the dream, I rest- And death becomes a welcome guest. Gladly entombed in my imagining Where so still, my heart is spring- In the winter you await within In memories that have never been. The twisted seraph upon the wave, The swan and song upon the grave- From the depths, your kiss in my head As if from the flowers of the dead. Which is buried, which has turned away? Only silence, perhaps, can say...