In Low Light

John Muro

The tides have fallen back from shore

and the harbor’s become a sprawl of

whimsical ruin, wide and still and without

ruffle, and I can see how its slender

shine stretches out and traverses the

Sound on its way past dry-docked

trawlers towards the horizon where

it bends then fractures at some unseen

angle towards a heaven that’s draped

in coastal-fog grey and the space

between air and water is difficult to

discern since these are more pallid,

impoverished clouds than Constable’s

bloated spires of splendor and you

fear the transcendent blue that once

emerged between them may soon be

extinguished altogether because this

is, after all, a soft-fallen, yet cold and

comfortless, winter in New England

where light is always receding and

afternoon air is wet and weighted

and without song, as the few remaining

birds are all dark fury and muted

bluster and beauty must be something

wished for, pillaged or cobbled together

from the tideline’s thatched decay.