Long horizon, distantly spread
before slow lifting lines
that lope towards me. A thread
leading long, strong and fine
To a foreign storm, cracking
Silently, lives away.
This salted wall, it’s gift, stacking
high as a breeze lifts
Lace from its face. I rise
to glide down the wind dappled
skin of The Wave, my eyes
searching for that curve graced
to send me on that slow
swift flight of joy and wanting,
lifting me to greet the throw
of the wave’s arc sculpting
this finest of curves, it’s caress
along chest arm and finger
the loving, threatening touch
of my blessed, affectionate, water.
By Mick Sowry http://safetosea.blogspot.com/