his fate
was written on the white caps
of the vast, vast sea,
not blue, not green, not black, not gray,
but
her hue determined by her mood;
not calm, not tempest brewing,
not a fury showing her anger,
but
her emotion displayed reflecting her mood
just like his fate;

he did not choose his fate,
the sea chose him;
he answered the call
little realizing
what his choice would require;
what the final result would be:
he left loved ones,
family, friends, women, his home
to ride those waves so far away:
the Atlantic, the Mediterranean,
the Pacific, the Indian Oceans
continued to beckon to him;
he answered
to spend his time there,
a pilgrim converted
until the sea told him
“you are now an old man;
“you have been a good mariner, a good seaman,
but
it is time for you to leave the sea.”

the old mariner lives in a cabin
on a hill with a view of the sea;
he often walks to the coast
at the bottom of his hill,
especially when the day
is gun metal steel gray
with an offshore chill wind;
his old, gnarled bare feet
that used to walk those decks
stands in the sand
with the tide
blowing soft white foam
on top of the gray sea
lapping around his legs;
he talks to the sea;
she responds;
he retreats to his cabin
alone
before a large wave
crashes on the beach
before ebbing away.