My sleeping spirit wakes
As the town’s vespers
Ascend the stairless sky
And the sea whispers.

The rushing waves arrive
Upon the craggy
Shores of consciousness
And the sea whispers.

Like the mariner’s song
Or an ancient dirge,
Which the paling waves hum
As the sea-storms surge.

Through the hidden grottoes
And cavern waters
Lie the countless demesnes
Through which she whispers.

Like some magic seashell
On an antique shore
Echoing, a thousand words
Of sage-like lore.

Upon the earthly sod,
Of sunken treasures
And ships long forgotten
She quiet whispers.

Like a forlorn nymph
Who weeps and shivers
In her hallowed grots,
And sacred rivers—

Hoping for love’s tidings,
Her quiet vespers,
Upon the boundless seas,
She softly whispers.

Like a beautiful swan
With its broken wings,
Whose delicate soul flies
As the night-tide sings.

So my dreaming spirit
Its slumber enters
As the clouds veil the moon,
And the sea whispers.

2016

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The featured image is “Northeaster” (1895) by Winslow Homer (1836-1910), courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

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