On a storm struck eve, the sea rises and falls,
Crumbles on wooded-plank, mast and helm;
A graying wind tumbles down with disturbance —
Cleaves into a fury as rain grips the rails,
Dark as anger: taunts the white gull, taunts the
White-dressed sailor, retching, sprawling agony.
Compass points, wrinkles and slides: a writhing course
Far from a harbor; waves wallop in the water,
Drenched basin of a sea; tall ship listing — ransacked timber
Like refugees wincing falling betrayed. The hungry storm
Advancing, auspicious blackened clouds taunting,
Chalked cliffs advancing, jutted rocks waking from an empty silence.
If you come too close, if you come too close, a solemn death;
Water’s feet rising rising, foothold of oaken wood.
Sailors grimpen into a wet salt: lifeboats for some — possession
Of a row in a moment, menaced by the cold drowning
Into a funeral, rolled into a deepened. And the oars creak a
Distance in a current, through the wave cry, the wind cry.
In sullen light lies the storm waste and the ransacked sea —
Bodies lean into a row: lifting brine and a whitecap;
Stroking towards an empty harbor. The ships have all gone
Under the sea. The sailors have all gone under the sea.
They have all gone into the dark abyss. Ghosts playing out
A survival, that of the living: in their beginning is their end.
Copyright © 09/27/17 lance sheridan®