Classic Poem

Hermann Hesse,
poet of the clouds, is gone;
summer is gone.
Empty
sand flats, draped
in a fine ash tint,
bite into the sealine.
Eternity
cut on the prow of the
old
battered boat abrades.
Today
the wind is bare.
Nature's harmony has its way:
the old wreck hunkers,
the rotted keel sinks,
the poem carved on the
old
battered prow wears thin.
The foolish fisherman grows old
while a shortening sun flashes
on his waving shock of white hair.
The sea is dark:
a bare wind blows today;
nature's harmony has its way.
The sea is dark
on the rotted keel.