It's Still Life

The Architecture of a Moment

Notes: Rooted in the oldest English tradition, Anglo-Saxon accentual verse follows the rhythm of breath and heartbeat rather than syllable or rhyme, where meaning is carried by cadence, image, and pause.

The Architecture of a Return (haibun)

We left work and drove through the night, dawn catching us just as the sun rose through the steel lattice of the Golden Gate. We ate breakfast at Fisherman’s Wharf, watching the ferry from Larkspur nose its way in. A seagull emptied itself on his jacket; I told him it was good luck, my laughter bright and unbreakable. He didn’t see the humour, but I was right. It was love. I always thought so. Those were days without worry, without watches or calendars. He was dead shortly after that.

White gull’s blessing—
your scowl, my laughter,
a bridge of sun and steel.

Years later, I returned alone. The same sun rose through the same bridge. The wharf now heaved with seals, basking and growling at the endless churn of light and tourists. The ferry to Larkspur kept its own steady rhythm, and I finally boarded it, to learn why there was a ferry to Larkspur. It was mostly a car park, and a smattering of restaurants. I saw no larkspur flowers.

They’ve always said you cannot return. They’re wrong. I did. It was the same, and I lived there happily for a year, the ghost of our joy a gentle, familiar roommate. Then, I moved on.

A ferry’s same route—
no purple flower blooms,
only the same kind light.

---

The Architecture of a Return (Anglo-Saxon Accentual Verse)

We drove all night,
dawn rose red
through gate of steel,
the Golden Gate.

Wharf-wind keen,
gulls screamed above;
one let fall
its white-streaked luck.

Laughter broke:
bright, unbroken.
He frowned still,
but fate found us.

Those were days
not bound by clocks,
time uncounted,
love unshadowed.

He died soon after.

Years slid past.
I came again,
sun on steel,
the same as ever.

Seals lay roaring,
backs lit gold.
Ferries crossed
their faithful path.

I stayed one year—
a soft, slow turning.

Ghost of joy,
quiet companion
kept the rooms
low-lit with grace.

They say no soul
returns again,
but I walked
that well-worn way.

Same kind light,
same bridge shining;
love long gone,
yet not departed.

Its warmth clung
like tide on sand,
carried still
beneath my steps.

---

Written for Writers’ Digest Poem-a-Day Challenge. Poems/prose, some AI/images ©Misky 2006-2025.