The Sailor’s Tale: Chapter Two — Shipwrecked

Tangled lines of sun­light skirt between clouds,
dan­cing through air, strok­ing heav­ing hills of ripe, full mead­ows
which slide down the gentle slopes
into val­leys where streams meet
becom­ing rivers
rush­ing through the earth
run­ning faster and stronger
swell­ing brim­ming and
burst­ing into the sea
where the waters
slow,
and swirl,
and mix,
and drift around each other,
hold­ing each other,
within each other,
and becom­ing one,
to lie under the sun.
He lies on the shore, exhausted from this.
Then wakes,
and the sun stops kiss­ing him,
and the sea is ice and knives,
and the hills are impass­able cliffs,
and the air grows claws.

He stands and looks around.
The only sights and sounds
are waves which slice the shore,
mix rock, and wood and gore,
and cliffs that echo back,
each boom­ing tidal crack.

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