In the Wind

My father was a sailor. In our
Landlocked town he never
Felt alive, beyond the wind,
The reverie, the whine

And whistle of the boat’s
Sharp ride, the constant push of foam
And surf, the scud of tide
Against the hull, but mostly just

The constant gale that lifts him,
That luffs the sails and throws
The jib across the wales,
The combing distant furrows –

The only purpose of the wake
Running down the faces
Of the waves, the world behind,
The only end the dawn. Even

In the shack on shore, shutters wide,
Breeze races through him,
Makes a mess of everything inside:
No other calling than the sea,

His future blank, except for me.

July 27th, 2024, Kaiholu