the pulsing music hypnotized
the sailors of the evening skies
just passed the place where seagull cries
had warned them of their sorrows
but tangles came in dips and waves
the residue of romps and raves
the deepened rivulets of caves
and who-cares-for-tomorrows
the dress that falls, the hands that find
the sound that calls, the lights that blind
the nights of counting beyond math
and love that’s hard to tell from wrath
the summer of all summers known
the music died, the seagulls flown
the knowledge that they cannot own
what love, at best,
just borrows
To share is human:
I do love your images of sea, and sail, and seagull. Seagulls really are very pragmatic except perhaps when they are practicing soaring in the updrafts off cliffs as the tide comes in. You know they aren’t hunting then but just enjoying their power and grace on the wing. I once cared for a wild great black back as an in hand (arms!) companion. he was old and wise.
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I grew up on the water, and I tend to still see things that way.
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Beautiful lines 🙌
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