at the mouth of the strait

are endless rows, hills of gray green water

constantly moving, flowing,

breaking upon themselves

throwing plumes of white spray

whipped away by the wind

the world, my world

the steel deck, the bulkheads, the racks

the mess tables and the food itself

are constantly moving, never still, changing

rolling, pitching, heaving

until that just became how it was

and stillness and calm

were strangers to us

10/11/18 LV
Copyright Michael Douglas Scott