White broken water

Fingers of a squall scooped up the sea as a thirsty
beggar would scoop water
from a ditch,
ragged pockets filled 
with salt

Ragged seagulls squawking, then a silence,
i awoke, alone, tired eyes
beacon dim,
half awake, stared at a 
flightless sky

Waves pounded, each drop of salt steady
like flakes of heavy snow,
cascading
with 
impurities

Disparate shards of ice knitted together,
cloak upon my brick
and mortar,
sleeveless, i frightened
of cold 

Bucket handle joints being hammered 
on like frozen iron,
straight-peen 
wielded by 
insidious breakers

i, alone, sit helpless as ships run up against
jagged edge of crag
and shallows

How can i expect them to pass judgment
against me if their
words
are silenced?

Closed within this lighthouse, i listened to
my old heart beat slow, 
then fast pulsing,
as if to pace

The brutality of the sea’s pounding beat upon 
my walls gives me excess
of it, 
its improvised music 
climbing, falling,
its tonic, sickening

Where pools of salt and ice lay, like
bales and baskets,
bundles of brine, bushels
of rime,
a ray of light, a warming 
pulse on me

My soul is longing for a calm sea. “doth
it have a heart,
this great body of water?”
“O, seagulls flying again,
beacon bright.”

Copyright © 03/04/2014 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

Image

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4 comments on “White broken water

  1. An amazing photo and great poetry to go with it!

  2. Oh my the beauty of the images displayed here to open a reality of the sufferings of the lighthouse and its destiny – will it survive?

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