embraced by murky sobs.
Contorted ears astern to hear
propeller's distant throbs.
The murk when dire, strikes fear within,
the shellbacks and the green.
A looming bow, the greatest dread,
the needing to be seen.
With engines off, the lapping clicks,
accompany the gulls.
Their cries announce, that land is close,
and rocks are near the hulls.
The doldrum calm does nothing but,
breed fear and pain, and should.
The wind it boils, and howls and screams,
but blindness chills the blood.
The witless soul would steam toward,
the phantom cherished shore.
Whilst rock and reef and shallow isle,
make feast of scalp and pore.
With port side void, and starboard grey,
the mind it cries for land.
But through the soup cuts clear a sound,
a wraithlike helping hand.
With docile notes, like airborne larks
the ebbing spirit flows.
The siren sounds are turning face,
ordained the passage goes.
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