Firth of the Clyde

 

At the mouth of the Clyde river  

Outside Glasgow, the fog gathers  

Over deepest waters, dark mirrors  

Hold secrets of the earth’s marrow.  

 

A ship’s hull slices ancient whispers,  

Waves rise and fall like old hands  

Trying to recall a forgotten dance,  

The sea’s voice hoarse with history.  

 

The firth sleeps in heavy stillness,  

A seabird cries out like a warning,  

But the wind, indifferent, presses on,  

Carrying salt and sorrow alike.  

 

In the depths, shadows twist, waiting,  

Fish swim like ghosts of drowned men,  

Their cold eyes searching the gloom  

For traces of light that never come.  

 

The land watches with stone patience,  

Its cliffs crumbling like tired elders,  

As the firth swallows another day,  

Leaving nothing but silence behind.