The Changing Light
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
The changing light
at San Francisco
is none of your East Coast
none of your
pearly light of Paris
The light of San Francisco
is a sea light
an island light
And the light of fog
blanketing the hills
drifting in at night
through the Golden Gate
to lie on the city at dawn
And then the halcyon late mornings
after the fog burns off
and the sun paints white houses with the sea light of Greece
with sharp clean shadows
making the town look like
it had just been painted
But the wind comes up at four o'clock
sweeping the hills
And then the veil of light of early evening
And then another scrim
when the new night fog
And in that vale of light
the city drifts
anchorless upon the ocean
Some say that ever,
`Gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long;
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad,
The nights are wholesome,
Then no planets strike,
No fairy takes,
Nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
Hamlet – Act 1, Scene 1
An Ill Wind
By Louis Jenkins
Today there's a cold northeast wind blowing, piling up ice all
along the water's edge.
The Point is deserted, no one for five
miles down the beach.
Just the way I like it.
The sand is frozen mostly, so the walking is easy as I pick my way through the
wrack and drift.
Today I don't even leave footprints.
Wind, sand, sun and water. A simplicity that defies comprehension.
The barest essentials for the imagination's work. This shore has
been pretty much the same for ten thousand years.
Countless others have been here before me, musing and pondering, as
they walked down the beach and disappeared forever.
So here's what I'm thinking: wouldn't it be great if one of them dropped
a big roll of hundred dollar bills and I found it?