Winter Atlantic Ocean under near-gale conditions.
Winter Atlantic Ocean under near-gale conditions.

For some the sea is home, salt air, a place of few
Regrets or gifts, but honesty of life and love,
Where years and brine temper body and soul.

For some the sea is a place of repentance,
Unfathomed depths, providing mirrored
Introspection, purging sins of treacherous hearts.

For some shore and sea speak of lives lost, days
Endured in salt spray, new horizons, heavy waves,
Ships made good to port, just as oft destroyed.

The sea is all of these, how it touches me and how
I dare respond. Welling crests decide, arbiter of
Human plights, hopes, mending lives like torn nets.

At times we are but flotsam at mercy of the waves,
Some sink and are forever lost. Some wash upon
Foreign shores, homeless, struggling for life anew.

For others the sea is none of these, no sense of
Direction or of depth. Theirs is a boat battered on
Rocks, a wayward compass, lighthouse fog-lost.

For me the sea is everything, dazzling colors, full
Of life, blue skies, scudding clouds, sun and moon,
Churning diesels in the night, trawling lights aglow.

Tonight I return to you, servant and ship’s mate.
Protect and guide me as I navigate your depths,
Taking fish on the Atlantic and burying them in ice.

Recollections after trawling for fish on the broad Atlantic Ocean.

Social profiles