The sun rises to find some of his realm gone.
Would a southern wind help him melt the clouds?
Gales rush from contentious latitudes
But collapse off shore of battle fatigue.
With dying winds, clouds regroup,
Bounce and settle down again, hiding all.
Momentum carries them westward to pile up thicker still.
This world vanishes quietly in downy silver.
Under grey cover, silence erases life:
No squeals of delight or trills of larks;
No plops of rainfall,
Splashing waves or tumbles of pebbles…
Where is she, wonders the sun,
My clear and transparent sea
Who dances in moonlight but quivers
In the heat and gentle breezes?
The Med is his. She reflects his fire,
The beauty of his light, the magic of color,
The splendor of evanescence…
But today, she is gone.
He tries to poke holes in the cover to no avail.
He can’t see beyond thick grey flannel…
She is just a drop on the blue planet,
He thinks, what does it matter?
Then he remembers vast, beautiful,
Deep, and perfect seas of long ago
When the earth was young…
Gone now and buried so far in her darkness
That even time has forgotten them.
But the long ache of devastation lingers…
And then he remembers the delight of discovery
The mirror held up in the twinkle of a smile,
The seduction of the bluest of waters
That sang and lulled Ulysses to sleep…
He remembers storms and upheavals of change…
He wonders will she be the same
When she comes out of hiding?
unbuttoned or undone 
Let’s hope
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She will change. How fast and how much is the question.
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Your poem reflects the beauty, the moods and the unpredictability of the sea.
And of woman.
You have a way of writing that causes breath to be held, in expectation, in anticipation, and, sometimes, in doubt.
This piece is, like the Med herself, quite magnificent.
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What a thrill it is to have c.e hold his breath!
It’s just a sigh away from breathtaking!
Thank you for the huge compliment, You are too kind, I can’t even begin to do justice to the Med’s magic.
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He should know by now what it means when she puts on the old grey flannel nightie, eh?-)
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Aww RJB! really. Storm’s brewin’ that’s all. Or the Stromboli is about to blow a gasket…
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Sorry. What rhymes with prurient?
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I’ll go with disorient and derivatives and then let it go.
Hugs ,)
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Sometimes a sweet gentle nymph, others a capricious witch…, but even sometimes she is only looking for some quiet privacy… Liked it, Emm. 🙂
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Ah yes, just being herself, in all the moods.
Glad you liked Paul.
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I love how this plays out in my mind, like two lovers separated by the cloud of some dark emotion, waiting for it to pass and wondering if the effect of the storm will pass as well. The element of time, memories of the past, all play in some anticipation of the next clear day. Always a pleasure to read you, Em. And, apologies for running away with your poem, but the dreams don’t stop for me, even when I’m awake.
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It gives me great pleasure to lead you through a dream D, to lead you to create some other story as you watch mine unfold.
Yes, we dream all the time 😉
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It’s always a pleasure to share in such inspiration, Em. The dreams are inspired and in turn give inspiration. A nice cycle to live in.
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Lovely poem. AnElephant stopped by and compared it to one of mine. http://friendlyfairytales.com/2015/08/19/magic-mirror/ Mine is far more frivolous than yours, which I love.
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Nice expression !!!
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Awesome expression !!!
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