And so I come to these far western shores
Small waves, as child’s soft sleeping gentle break
Last ripples of past ocean storms that make
Unwonted change to plotted compass course
And drive strong ships to unexpected source
Of treasure that all must at last forsake
For all lands face west. All must this last voyage take
With no lading more than saved joy, remorse.
My boat is there. Light oars across the thwart
My strength enough to run her down the beach.
Sea pebbles grate. Quiet she floats, reborn.
Though I look back to shore I am now caught
By ebbing tide that takes me out of reach
Beyond the cape to dark becoming dawn.
It came to me an image – a small clinker built boat, lying on a stony beach with grey sea and sky lightened by a last touch of yellow from the setting sun. I tried it as blank verse at first but it seems to work better a s a sonnet.