Cloister Cove

It's quiet now, in Cloister Cove,

until the summer showers,

where polished stones are dulcimers,

who ring and sing for hours.

The gentle rain, the softer storms,

play liquid lullabies,

but the Cove can host a tempest

and its strumming, drumming skies.

Peace once wintered in the Cove.

From high, a white dove, down she dove

to rest among the umbral grove,

its mild moss and wild clove.

In mist, serene intoxicant,

Peace had found her darkling pair,

but she knew she'd have to leave him,

else the world would seek her there.

It's quiet now, in Cloister Cove,

but a storm tunes off the coast,

a welcoming distraction from

the Peace the Cove loved most.