Fortune

Image courtesy of iStock.com/knape

He said it is those longships,

That, sent in sharp saccades of spring,

Return as seaborne monoliths,

Laden, surging low through the ice.

He did not speak to reconcile

Cold nights, lost crafts or hurricanes,

Only oars’ sanguinity,

And still water made to move.

Shepherd’s crook became Asklepian,

Searching for shadows of his form

But, like Icarus descending,

I sing my secret to the sea.

The art is long and turbulent,

And there are no guiding stars,

Only city lights like sentinels

Swinging above those still searching.

I lost his footprints at the coastline

But I know they trace back West

Where he waits for what I become

Some day, following them home.