Out of a fired ship, which by no way
But drowning could be rescued from the flame,
Some men leap'd forth, and ever as they came
Near the foes' ships, did by their shot decay;
So all were lost, which in the ship were found,
They in the sea being burnt,
They in the burnt ship drown'd.
the sun sets,
brightly striping the sea
as clouds are blackened.
Row me into nowhere --
The middle of the sea --
To drift without a care
As waves roll under me.
Row me into nowhere,
That vacant stretch of sea,
To watch blue skies, so fair,
For an eternity.
Row me into nowhere;
I'll bob upon the waves.
Let me make it my lair:
Free of rascals and knaves.
Row me into nowhere
When all the good are gone;
I'll breathe that salty air
Until my soul moves on.
waves crash ashore,
churning waves to foam,
white coastal frill.
waves hit rocky shore
and spout a geyser that rains
like a mini squall.
Upon the ocean shore,
there is a rock:
hard,
black,
porous,
volcanic.
Gentle seas send ripples
against its base.
Stormy seas send waves
to relentlessly batter it,
crashing over its top.
Both the lapping waves
and the crashing waves
cart away parts of the rock --
one unit of grit at a time.
The lapping waves need patience;
the crashing waves need energy,
but they both insist a tax be paid
for their labors.
Just looking at the rock,
one can tell it was once different:
bigger,
its pores filled
with other rock -- softer rock,
rock that the sea long ago turned
into sandy bottoms and beaches.
The rock is dissolving like an ice cube,
except in geologic time.
