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The maid of brines
The flag was waving on the stern;
she stared saluting and the mist
my face on forecastle, coldly kissed,
- she tried my figure to discern.
The Adriatic was that night
half covered by a cotton cloud,
- endowed the night's adorning shroud
and took our ship afar, forthright.
A ghostly ship, a ghostly log
- the maid of brines had left betimes
addressed us with the sounds of chimes
that rang accordantly in the fog.
Harmonious her song had welled
from depths, unearthly was the verse
that lingered in our minds' rehearse,
bespoken words, beloved and held.
Her image standing on the bow,
in dark my solitude enacts,
while shooting stars on earthward tracks
induct to quell by ocean's draw.
Our recklessness, the route defines
and nautical endangered role,
I know it's wrongful to recall
our bicycling and coastline pines.
The ghostly ship transports us there
attending to the deepness' shrine,
how beautiful the dewdrops shine
and grandness of her seaward fair!
© 04-21-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)
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