The Ship From Delos

 By Steve King

©2023 All Rights Reserved

 

White moon

Upon the broken sea.

Winds course, and then they go.

Go and rise again to sing,

As if to hie the vagrant tides,

Force each flagging sail,

Pause to gather voice again,

Tiring soon, it seems again,

Of all the age-old hymns.

Until the ship at last comes in.

 

He wakes to breaking seas,

The usual clamor. 

He’d had enough of dreams,

Enough of friends,

And a surfeit of life;

Cared not for his every care,

Had passed the threshold

Of his every grief,

Sung of all he might desire.

 

He could not yield,

Dared not yield to friends,

Would not begin again.

 

For where better? 

And with what better men?

 

Like the winds,

And every old sunrise,

His days had come and gone.

He bade them, fond,

And girt his heart,

To augur no surprise.