The Sea is History
A city’s death by fire, a sky’s last breath,
Ruins of a great house swallowed by death.
The bounty of time, a fist in the sand,
Ashes and bygone cries still haunt the land.
A far cry from a lesson learned,
After the storm, the waters churn.
The king of the river, silent and tall,
Watches the tide as empires fall.
In the village, the trumpeter plays,
Notes like coral in sunlit haze.
The season of phantasmal peace,
Drifts on the wind, seeking release.
A night in the gardens, like Pentecost,
Where love after love redeems the lost.
The schooner flight cuts through the waves,
A history carved in nameless graves.
The brother-in-law crow calls out in spite,
Mocking the ghosts of occupant blight.
And still, the sea churns old refrains,
Its song of loss, its song remains.
WoPoLi 
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