As this boat carries me from that old, distant shore
And mist starts to wreath the horizon.
I think to the past, all the things I have done,
And grieve for the soul's of those left.
A fishing boat passes, adrift to the port,
On the starboard the Southern Isles beckon.
It all seems so faint, yet my heart has a pang,
For a history's passing, so pleasant.
The boat starts to roll, the gentlest motion,
And all is at peace in the world
A seagull calls and examines the wake,
The waves hypnotize me to awe.
From this morose state a waking thought beckons
Why should I rebel from it's teasing caress?
"The sky is so blue, with cotton clouds passing;
Return to the shore, undo all that's done!"
The seventh wave strikes, a trough quickly follows,
Breaks into the reverie, opens the trance.
A glimpse of the future, unbidden, uncertain,
An open expanse, like the sea, lies ahead.
So should I pay heed to disquieting thoughts;
Hark'n back to the land, with blissful dreams;
Or strike to the unknown, hidden yet wary,
Asking for nothing but a glimpse of truth.