The Ashley By Morn

Here's a little poem I wrote a little while back while sitting within sight of the Ashley River. I was inspired after reading Robert Burns's beautiful Sweet Afton, as well as breathing in deeply the cool November morning, low country air.

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The Ashley By Morn

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Gentle is your way by morn among thy sweetgrass green. Your banks are bathed by ringlets warm, so delicate and serene. And rising low above thy tide, a shroud of misty air. A cloak of grey doth all but hide the light of dawn so fair. The shadows that rise like secrets you keep holding night beyond its end...Are but arms of oak that arch and weep, dripping moss like tears of men. Across your reeds the stillness subsides as November breathes her last. And rising with thy sifting tides, your song of twilight has passed. A lingering mist bodes sweet farewell as it clings in final embrace. 'Til lifting as gently as the virgin's veil to reveal your shimmering face. So swiftly comes the heron white to grace among your reeds; To glide where once was only night and walk where waters recede. And there he waits 'til morning's end, a guardian of thy shores; Then leaves when first comes autumn's wind, the coming of night once more. Gentle is your way by morn, your promise doth remain; When shadows fade and light is born above your banks again.