By the Pacific


Runnels of silver spume
Swept as polished slate
Are awash from noontide fire
To the hovering of the cross.

The tongues of plants and men
Hossana in silence--
Retiring beside
This siren's tide.

Sharper than the swords of Conquisidores
The masks of Capachuin monkies,
Swinging through the crowns of palms:
Boughs bend back, quieted.

Then blazes this fire
From Cathay to Darien:
O voyager, where are you?
Are you the Captain, or the driven mast?

The swept ship sways between the fronds
Still searching: Find the way West at last!
Find the peaceable people and the just
In the broken semaphore of these million stars.


Will Morgan