The Grey Ship

It has hovered here, for days...like a grey tongue, licking stamps, hissing, and spitting...but doing little. A bit of rain, a cup, a bowl...but nothing for the thirsty earth...a ship aground, her bottom shoaled on the sky of heaven. Her sails are billow'n clouds...ripped, and soiled. Yesterday, they flew, fully...white, and bright, rose gold...where the sun, caught them. Now, her toil shows...her mood, to less hope, bound...her strength, the might of few...wallow'n in tides, outside safe harbor. Like a ghost, of ships, before...her grayness shrouds, as age endows with sadness, tears, that will not come...her wreck lays...unmanned, afar, off shore. The night, may blow her out...a candle in the storm...snuffed, and, thereby, morning...gone.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: Caspar David Friedrich, Shipwreck By Moonlight