Breakfast in bed,
And idle pools,
And fountains spreading rainbows in the sun,
Which mostly shines.
An hour at the mill and back
Wiping the hands on tissue
That is never seen again
Perfect hands
Soft and White
For holding flowers
An island, not in the sea,
But in tumult.
A seawall weary and straining
Lamentations bitter and loud
Not from without
But within.