Land:
A star does sit upon the band,
the thin and creaking strip.
And all we have to light us leaves, Alone with faith upon this ship.
Premonition of sinking:
The waves seem oily thick and dark
and not a man could scrape the bark
From this cold, and swirling sea.
It is the seagull that I envy,
For they do look upon us from high.
And from there must call, in unknown tongue:
“O’ hark to these mortal souls, that doth crown themselves kings and yet, should they sink, no salvation have they”
Contemplations on the setting sun:
The burning sun’s last glow does sink,
Skuttled by the evening’s force.
And with it all light goes,
I am filled with sadness.
There is the very eye of God and it sinks
sinks further in all its greatness.
With every blink.
“Pints”:
Pints, the golden water.
And clinking glasses in warm light
How happy I am when drunk
How well I’ll sleep come night
An existential thought:
Doth the waves know what spurs them?
Do the clouds halt and wonder “how”?
It is the tailer not the suit that plants the hem
Nor the master to his servants bow
