Slow, sad sails, empty of all their power, Wagging through the trailing mists of morning. Quiet decks, awash with fluttering foam, Robbed of regimented hands battening Quarter hatches, holes and starlit skylights. Each cabin lost of all souls except phantoms That shift in time like the absent Bosun’s call. No hurried feet clambering the rigging…
Day: September 30, 2020
Morning Haiku – 80
Under flat-white cloud banks coal-black crows trail stuttering shadows.