The Long Call of the Sea
It’s the call of the sea – it’s a salty
howl of winter that sets my pulse
to fitful flight. I was born to the sea.
Not on it, or by it, or near it, although
all these are true, but born to it
like an artist is born to paint.
We are of the same tilt, the same ilk.
It tastes the same as the wet beads
on my arm or the sting of my tears.
We are of the same godly creation,
and when we lose sight of each other,
I hear it calling me through long
cresting waves – cries of a lost child –
and that’s when I return fleet of heel,
flying straight and steely into its swell,
returning on my Icarused wings.
Margo’s Tuesday Tryout: Let’s Fly