If All The Tides Pull Is Not Consoling

The fog is rolling out to sea On ochre waves of yellow. Love, it is a shawl, a shadow Of the blackbird's dream. And if you care, touch wings- With death, life and love And all immortal things Caress wings with the dove Who holds a branching olive? For in his powers willing Shall you hear singing? The holy seraphs above Archangels six-winged In canticle choir voice Of a love forever tinged By the stigmata of a choice See, the yellow fog is rolling- Out his blackbirds alighted dream Love must carry hope in the extreme If all the tides-pull-is not consoling.