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The Fickle Mistress

The air is still.

No wind disturbs the surface of the great ocean as it rolls with the regularity of breath.

To the east a faint glow grows in the darkness as the promise of day picks out the horizon.

Another day is coming, prayers of thanks for nights’ safe passage.


A zephyr rises with the morning sun.

It plays at the surface now a field of glistening ripples.

The course is set, watches changed, day’s routine began.

Hope of morning’s promise buoys the spirit; the great ocean rolls on.


Ominous dark billows drape the noon sky.

The rising wind tears at the surface, building waves to oppose progress.

Bow slams shuddering into each crest sending drenching spray washing over deck.

Morning’s hope dispatch, the great ocean rolls on.


Sheeting rain enhances the fading of day.

Strained eyes search for rhythmic flash of guiding light.

There! Yes, no, maybe but yes headland beacon firm in view.

Harbor’s protection waits still, the great ocean rolls on.


Harbor’s walls buttress against tempest rages.

In safety reflect, what fickle mistress is the sea.

Too plans of man she pays no heed.

Boastful talk of battles won, but the great ocean rolls on.

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