At Sea

In the silent midst

of this great oppressive blackness

the distant lights of fog-obscured offices peer

across the pier

at the slowly rolling sea

hiding in the dark and writhing

beneath the barrage of rain,

the looming veil of stars

glistening and gargantuan,

watching on from their safe distance,

burning.

The man, alone, on the wooden boat

fights tirelessly, chasing

some absent heat in this cold night

something nostalgic, lost and missed.

Leathered hands grope at

and tease thick ropes,

to tame the rippling sails,

his pursuit determined,

spirit resilient and hopeful.

Somewhere far in front of him

lie blurred droplets of hope

on lands for now invisible,

but the struggling, groaning wood

cannot be encouraged.

The man continues

fighting, bleeding

loving, feeling,

charging, needing

forcing his way

towards the beguiling silhouette of loss.

But his weakened boat collapses in the water,

and sleeping cranes dare not intervene

the metal hands too passive and reluctant

to dig this lost soul

a cold, watery grave.

On the surface

they live in mourning

awaiting a return,

black dress an old custom

followed blindly, like bedtime prayers,

beady eyes searching every crevice

of the silent unseen

in this endless night sky.

They hope,

they imagine,

they fantasise

that somewhere along these hungry waters

his arms still hug the equator tight

and that gravity protects

and caresses his missing figure.

They hope, but they know that it is hopeless.

And they feel their way back home

clumsy in the black,

hands-first through the unlifting fog,

those office lights turned off

those unmanned cranes still lost in

grand, mechanical dreams,

the future dormant

but not mourning,

withered bodies

swallowed whole by

starved waters

unchanging,

lost in the mist while the cityscape looms,

a series of concrete and cold metal graves.