Dead night--

 as green waves swell on stormy seas,
 and fog creaks to ice on
   winter nights.
 Our sleep rocks to these
 relentless ocean
 seashell roars.

    Until,  until,  until....some lonesome
faraway foghorn sounds across our
rolling waters,

      shivers and dissolves

      into Ethan's night-time

across the hall, on the shore,
3 a.m., many leagues away.

  We climb the ropes
             from our oceanic sleep,
        and man the lifeboats
              as  best we can,  
finding him like the
Gloucester man at his
squall-soaked wheel,

    pitched forward on crib bars,
     lashed by fears, drenched by dreams,

 howling into the storms
 of our New England nights.  


All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
Contact Bill Schechter