The tide knows no to early morning,
no inoppertune midnight,
but comes, regular,
the 75 year comet,
the second hand on
Grandfathers clock.
We chart it for fishing days,
when to dig for clambs,
crab the marsh.
Yet its turn from
ebb to full to fall to rise,
that moment unrealized.
As Death, whose coming is
fixed at birth
but whose exact seconds suprise
is a shock to the system
which no one survives.
Poems by Ken 