The Roaring Forties

Glass, old and rheumy, like a mariner’s sea-worn eyes;
paper, yellowed and brittle, from many long years
inside. A scrawl of swirls like deep-sea shells,
from times and lands unknown, writ by a hand
bleached clean by salt, down by Neptune’s throne:

My one true love, to cold embrace,
this ocean calls me now. To frigid sleep
in chambers deep, I soon will ferry down.
My ship is stilled, yours must sail on
to daybreak, happiness and wonder
beyond. My love for you, with final breath,
shall endure, I swear, through life
and past death.

A pale sun kisses Sorrento sand, as gulls swoop
to play amongst foam; a bottle borne
by indifferent waves, carries its burden home.

– Ryan Stone


22 thoughts on “The Roaring Forties

  1. What great poetry…i love the use of figurative language here, especially the personification of the ocean – it garners such vivid images from the minds eye…

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s