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Pickthorn Manor: 61

Amy Lowell

His weight upon the gunwale tipped the boat
To straining balance. Everard lurched and seized
His wife and held her smothered to his coat.
“Everard, loose me, we shall drown-” and squeezed
Against him, she beat with her hands. He gasped
“Never, by God!” The slidden boat gave way
And the black foamy water split-and met.
Bubbled up through the spray
A wailing rose and in the branches rasped,
And creaked, and stilled. Over the treetops, clasped
In the blue evening, a clear moon was set.

(C) Amy Lowell
01/01/2000


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