Salt and tears

From the Point

the light 

sweeps low

cutting through

the mist 

and snow. 

Then I hear

the foghorn blow,

the billows roar,

and sense the

thunder 

of maroons 

calling men 

brave and true

to leave 

their beds

and save 

some souls

upon the sea. 

There is a 

certain purity

to the anger 

of the ocean

and a brotherhood

monk-like 

in their devotion

to this element. 

On nights

like these 

the weather frees

all but initiates 

from this worship. 

For good or bad

the sea is impartial 

in a judgement

spelled out

in bones, 

churchyard stones,

and weeping widows

in empty homes. 

On nights

like these 

I am cured 

of my disease

and bless 

the chance 

that the 

sea God's

glance 

falls on better 

men than me. 

For I am done 

with salt

and tears

and I may stay 

neat and clean

tucked up 

with the girl

of my dreams 

in the cottage 

by the shore 

and I need 

brave the 

sea no more.