Saints preserved Edit 0.0001

[StanleyZ]

Death walks like mist, through windless dawn,
pulled pale from sanguine seas.
Wraiths scurry from the sunlight, drawn
to shadows under  trees.

Crows' nests, abandoned, fall to grass;
white bones, stick-thin and dry.
Black widow's rags, the birds croak past,
drowning the gull's wild cry.

Like sailor's souls, gulls wheel in winds
tempted by dry land;
they stay aloft, as though their sins
were blown in stinging sand.

Grey sandstone tablets scattered round,
though fractured, still proclaim
that down below in salted ground
the briney boys remain.

Ah, how they cursed and how they hauled
against the lashing rain;
then one by one they fell and called
on shipmates lost...none came.

Inland most lie, beneath black yews;
the rest were swept to sea.
Good seamen all, none would accuse,
for all is destiny.
tectak 1965

Posted with some humilty to demonstrate poetry without using big words...you know who you are

Did you really write this in 1965? Wow, I imagine you have quite an extensive oeuvre. It is kind of funny though, because the first time I read this I thought to myself that it was lacking something that your more recent poems have. Not a line or phrase, but a better understanding of how to use language. The rhyming in this piece is excellent, you have an amazing talent, but there is the always implicit fact that a death themed poem shouldn't sound like a children's lullaby. Creepy... But the dreariness of death is only half of this poem, after all the crows fold to the inspiring image of gulls. I really love the stanza about the sailors' graves. That marked a turn in the poem that increased my appreciation for the title. Your personification in the first stanza made sense, because you took wind out of the equation. When I read "Death walks like..." I thought here we go again. Mist might not have anything to do with walking, but if you imagine a misty, windless dawn that sense of zero gravity really gives the mist a motion similar to walking, or looming. It works, and I know it takes really skill to fit something functional like that into a strict meter. The crows' nests falling out of the tree kind of conflicted with the motionless wind. Maybe the crows acted the force upon the nests to make it fall? No. The crows are long dead, only a faint croak is left. That less moan of deaths imminence, though, is immediately combated with the soaring gulls, I like how they become such an empathized opposite, and that you state they are like the sailors soul, fighting on past those dark images of the first few stanzas. This poem becomes a case of the cycle of life. The dawn brings nothing but the idea of death, yet at the end of the day those who have lived still matter to nature itself. They live on in nature in fact. It is destiny.