Angel’s echoed voices ring
in timbre stretched and low,
beg to call all spirits home
across the distant water’s flow.
Soft remorse in beckoning
creams the ether still to air,
draws a waltz of deafened count,
holds the note eternal there.
Softly rolls the surf forgiving
icy cold from black,
gladly bounces dusk’s last winking
as sparkled souls cross ebbing tack.
Deep the voices resonate
and dwindle closed the shrinking light,
call in sorrowful murmurs,
“all souls return, to home, take flight”.
Silence summed in evening’s break,
calm surf entreats the lonely sea
spun in threads of heaven’s mercy,
one hushed string bowed eternally.
“Quiet edge of angel’s making,
grace be called in sea’s deep strand,
bless the souls there in your keeping,
grant them peace in angels’ hands”.
