by Thomas Davis
Eyes scudded dark, a roiling rage of storm,
The poet stood upon gray rock, the roar
Of boiling waves the cruciform
Of time, the slates of history a lore
Long lost, but still inside the chanting names
That sang a weaving with the waves.
The poet waves his arms. His presence claims
The past. He reaches past the earth of graves
And strains to bring the fire of poetry
From campfires blazing in forgotten nights
Beside the ferment of a Celtic sea
Onto a wild Wisconsin shore, old rites
Engendering a music mad with winds
That spills through words, a storm that never ends.