Final Draft

by Edward Alan Bartholomew 

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Out of the deeps rise the days, climb dawns and peak noons

Over dry fields dragging or drenched seabeds,

Over boughs bearing fertile buds and flowers;

Out comes the star-dogg'd sun, a scent of the moon

Over fish, gulls flocking and flying seabound,

Over shoreside sheep and shepherds alike.

On the rest, rain falls ruin for the evening;

Daylong drifting drowns in the nighttime,

Sinks to the seabed, stifled and constant;

No shifting to shore but towards shallows of death.

When all is authored, what aches to be writ

But the death of the deity who drafted it?