The Anchors Toll
They call it a mirror, but a mirror is shallow—
A thin skin of silver on glass.
The eye is a well where the heavy things settle,
And the light is too frightened to pass.
It’s a salt-water grave for the secrets you’ve kept,
Drowned deep in a thimble of blue,
Where the ghosts of the promises never quite wept
Are staring back out... at you.
So wade in the shallows if safety is sought,
But don’t claim to look for the soul;
For the deeper the story, the more you are caught
In the weight of the anchor’s toll.
B