Each ship at sea has a personality all its own.

The sea swept along
the harbour wall,
an immense gray symphony
conducted by the hand of grace
and pattering of feet along
the sand; shore
buffeted its rage with salty fury
pounding sanguine spray.

I was self-controlled
as a harbour wall,
doted on by ships,
dotted with translucent sails,
their handkerchief-white vessels
dabbing salty tears in the blooming
undersea garden. Toward austere
foreign journeys.

Emily Isaacson

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