Egg Rock ( Lynn Mass)

 

Out on Egg Rock,

amid winter battered seas whipped

to a stiff peak,

the wind curses you and rips

warmth from your body,

a mad frosted surgeon,

a wet succubus of death.

 

The lighthouse leans ,

arthritic in this gale,

shutters drawn like eyelids

against the truth

of blue gray swells,

the ante penultimate moan of fog horns,

the cruel blanket of a November sky pulled over its head.

 

It's not the salt that brings these tears to my eyes,

but I offer them up to the insatiable storm.

They are whisked away

and dashed against the rocky coast,

where better men than I have gone in sorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Syndra Lynn]

Beautiful. I enjoyed this one very much. You always touch a place in me that needs to be touched.