Was it the south wind
or a dream that mesmerised
the captain, so that the ferry
circled from port to port,
forbidden entry. Was it
a curse on our voyage
or providence that he altered
course, running the gamut
again of nine Beaufort...
How the storm wind rocked us
violently, a nurse gone crazy.
What were our nursery rhymes
in the howling
cave of the night, tell me:
"See how the star
returns to the cypress,
the seabird finds
her way to the mast..."
"My soul flies out
from my lips like a skylark,
taking my life with it
when we part..."
What hag of mercy
tended our cradle,
healing sleep
with luminous dreams,
limpid as morning
light through portholes,
sea-jade, aquamarine...
Sirocco
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103021600584
Свидетельство о публикации №103021600584
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