always sounding out to mestone and vines and wooden porchthe wooden planks of the old pier
slapped in the face by the waves, cold and choppy-
the mist- the fog, rolls in and seldom leaves
the wind and the salty spray you can feel--
in your beard, in your bowl of soup
one can see the ships in the distance
good captains with good crews
navigating their vessels
like the experienced ancient mariners --
cargo, container, tankers from ports distant
maybe ghost ships doomed for eternity
with the telescope from the bedroom
perched in the bay window like a toucan
distant yet seemingly touchable
sea green and whipping cream white foam
paintings of tall ships throughout the house
nautical knick-knacks here, there
and everywhere
hob-nobbing among themselves when
nobody’s around
clocks that sound bells
watches beginning, watches ending
and in between these watches
plenty of time to read poetry and write
to fall into catatonic gazes at the diamond water
