16th sentences from literature, only this is a poem

Here is the 16th set of quotes from literature, only this is a poem.
But it is still in keeping with Joyce’s (PaGrandma’s) column that was on this forum and which consisted of jokes and witticisms.

I filled in for her for a week and my columns had a lot of sayings in them. So when I saw some, in this case, a poem, it also reminded me of those sayings I used to put into those columns.

The person who initiated the column was Joyce, who was really nice. At one time she was a radio announcer in Manhattan. Her career as an artist included magazine and book illustration, commercial art, and sculpture, as noted in her obit sent to the website by one of her sons.

Her last column was on May 1, 2018. She passed away Dec. 19, 2018, at 83, according to her obit.

A Hunter’s Poem

written by Lemuel T. Ward
…
A hunter shot at a flock of geese
That flew within his reach,
Two were stopped in their rapid flight
And fell on the sandy beach.

The male bird lay at the water’s edge
And just before he died,
He faintly called to his wounded mate
And she dragged herself to his side.

She bent her head and crooned to him
In a way distressed and wild,
Caressing her one and only mate
As a mother would a child.

Then covering him with her broken wing
And gasping with failing breath,
She laid her head against his breast
A feeble honk… then death.

This story is true though crudely told,
I was the man in this case,
I stood knee deep in snow and cold
And the hot tears burned my face.

I buried the birds in the sand where they lay,
Wrapped in my hunting coat,
And I threw my gun and belt in the bay
When I crossed in the open boat.

Hunters will call me a right poor sport
And scoff at the thing I did,
But that day something broke in my heart …
And shoot again??? God forbid!!!
…
(This poem was published in The Chronicle in Crested Butte, Colorado, and reprinted in Dear Abby's column's.)

Yeah, that one gets me every time.

The tedious tides,
are out, then in,
the wind, calm-
soon a gale.
The beach of many,
suddenly of none.

Slow is the erosion of land,
The sea, of sand.
The sailors joy,
a big haul,
and the sorrow of lost time with no catch.

So much water but not a drop can drink-
when lost a drift.
Alas we are the hunted,
circle the sharks;
Alas a ship is seen,
The tide has been kind,
The sea is just land,
swept up by sand.
by HT (THE SEAS)