The river Tyne run dark and great
and it was being very late.
Left on the shore by everyone
she dreamt about the passing done.
The stars were acting innocent.
The moon in well known orbit went,
inertly not, not fixed, not false,
but undertaking, dead, or else.
The skies were absent now and then,
which meant they had no will of when.
The air was dry and warm and fresh
and she was certainly just flesh.
It was a perfect night. No strength
could ever make up for its length.
She should have passed the river Tyne.
But she could not just cross that line.
This poem is published on my site "Joseph" | here |.