There's a place for this poem; the place where I heard sail clasps tinkling against masts, urgent waves slapping hull sides, and the creaking of weathered docks as sailors passed. It shall remain nameless so you can pick your own salty seaside milieu and see if something in it strikes a sense or two . . .
LOOKING TOWARD THE BAY
Gray? No. Green-gray water churning,
Messing up the bay.
Gray? Yes. Gray is the sky above,
Above the green-gray, messed up bay.
And white? Yes. White is in the picture, too.
The foam is white,
The gulls show white,
Washed up carcasses, too.
Is everything green and gray and white?
Surely the pebbles on the beach
And the trees along the shore
Have colors more than these?
They do, but not in this picture--
Only gray in the general hue.
Gray drops falling on wings of gulls
Tossed in the fitful sky
Over the green-gray bay.
© 2006 Jim Ross
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Comments: 16
Salty Afternoon Wind
That time of color
When the wind howls through the gate
Makes me breathe deeply
Reminding me why I laugh
And brace the stiff sou'west blow
Sorry I missed your comment, Perry. You're right; the grayness DID dominate the scene on the day LOOKING TOWARD THE BAY was conceived. And longing. For me, the monochrome hue, the wind, and the noisy effect on the sailboat hardware, left me feeling sadly voyeuristic. Thank you for your comments.