The Grey Tide

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  The cold green rocks and lapping waves
  Are all my world as here I sit
  With downcast eye and heart that craves
  The bush and blue sky over it.

  The tide of years is washing by,
  The misty water drifts between
  A soul with wings that may not fly
  And shadowy realms that might have been.

  Too late, too late, alas, I know
  The track that winds by shining leaves
  From where the flood reflects, below,
  The greyness of the heart that grieves.

  Another yet may tread the way,
  And offer at that hidden shrine
  His gift of rolled and twisted clay,
  And set his lips to holy wine.

  Another yet may tinge the flame
  Upon that altar blue or red,
  And freely call upon Her name,
  And taste at will the blessed bread.

  The waves are grey about the rocks,
  A cold wind sets across the sea,
  A travelling ray of sunlight mocks
  The shadow on the heart of me.

© John Le Gay Brereton