Classic Poem

The moon rims the wavering tide where one fish slips,
The water makes a quietness of sound,
Night is an anchoring of many ships
Home-bound.

There are strange tunnelers in the dark, and whirs
Of wings that die, and hairy spiders spin
The silence into nets, and tenanters
Move softly in.

I step on shadows gliding through the grass
And feel the night lean cool against my face:
And challenged by the sentinel of space —