© Steve King
All rights reserved
Seven sails on the dark sea rose.
I show my face to the moon,
my ear to new tides.
When will the winds turn to me?
My mood sings with harbor sounds
while all memories protest—
each strain lifting
a weight of ancient wishes.
The shoreline gathers spirits
that would seem as men:
another and another and still…
each rapt in rediscovered calm,
clouds for lodestars,
dead reckonings for dreams,
mouthing silently the old sea psalms.
Done with this sea, I am.
Long done.
Done with all spirits, dreams and songs.
How full of want,
the belly of this emptiness,
how heavy, still, the hand
of the untethered past.
But how lightly ride those seven sails,
free of the tides at last.
