by Richard Vince

She was a sailor, or so they said:
The wind could take her anywhere,
And there were diamonds in her eyes
From the sunlit sea or from
The midnight sky.

Of all the ports in all the world,
She had to sail into that one.
Call it lack of imagination,
Or fate if you’re kinder; sometimes
People just get too tired
To fight the inevitable.

It is never too late though:
There will always be days
When the breeze is infectious,
Nights when the wind is alive,
And that old feeling of air
Finding sails, uncontrollable power
Tamed by her steady hands,
Will be but a moment away.

Sunsets are longest at sea
With nothing to raise the horizon;
It is the place to enjoy
The long summer evenings for which
We pay in the winter.

Perhaps that memory is
Stirring within her now,
Her westward evening glances
Smoothing the skyline, stars
Multiplying in her imagination.

Or perhaps it is enough
To remember the song of the sea,
And to know that it will
Always be hers, and always
Be there, right where
She left it.


Posted on 05/20/2018
Copyright © 2020 Richard Vince

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by George Hoerner on 05/20/18 at 09:33 PM

Thanks The-poem takes me back a long time. I recall-many years ago-I was a-member of sailing historical society in NJ. We had a and sailed out of the Delaware Bay. What a time it was.

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