By Katelyn Stewart
How tempest-tossed and short our sailings be;
Forever tied, dependent on the sea
And all her whims. Our vessels float beyond
This present bay, worn and often mended
From the fray of choppy ventures. A pond
Would offer calmer berth and safer bed
For those who’d bear it. But I swear it, all
Who hark that strange disruption in the call,
The sea’s command emitted by the gull,
To break the pounding waves against the hull,
Accede: a roamer’s path lies ever west
And far beyond the islands is our rest.
For we who hear, our rudders we must wet
Horizon-bound, our compass ever set.