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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