Harbour

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