On drifting, shifting sand
I stand,
Looking for a ship
through fog and mist.

The
charcoal clouds
sail, windblown,
mocking, mirroring the
restless roils below them

The swelling, iron-blue
waves
slap the craggy cliffs,
their smashing crashes
muffled
by the
mizzled shore

a heart beating
beneath pillows


From the watchtower,
the watchman
is aware of my presence,

amused
by my
vigil
that says to the
darkening horizon,
now hidden away
by the
sea-bound spray,
writhing like
awakened wraiths
across the
wrathful waters:

She will return...


© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015