Now, yachts launch into the flow.
Then they catch the larboard
And their sales paunch with light.
There are bows full of salt.
Fish quiver in the imagination.
Everything is this and that, and there, a lazy
Dart across a veer.
They must be slewing.
Weekend captains throw ropes about the breeze.
The horizon is a vernacular compass.
That which drives them drafts the
Sea into glass cavalries.
They have come to save
Invigoration from routine.
They have come to shout
The glory of lux on wave
In savagely civilized languages.
This is how to sail across a Sunday.
(C) N J Green
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Author:
Ex nihilo (
Offline) - Published: November 16th, 2016 12:25
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 42
Offline)
Comments2
WELCOME NJG ~ Thanks for your first poem. I generally sail on WINDERMERE (UK Lake District) rather than the sea but the exhiliration is the same. Very descriptive poem ! Yours BRIAN Please check my poems ~ Thanks B
Thank you, Brian! All the best
Wonderful
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