Winter Sea.

The sea is calm, sullen and pale cuffing against
the hull of my ship lazy as oil;
woolly clouds are panic stricken
running southward as followed by a pack of wolves.
There is a surge as the gloomy
sea begins to heave, too late now to reach a safe
haven, a tranquil Nordic bay.

We can’t escape as billows do it is getting
darker the ship shakes as a drunk sobering up;
to get through coming days
I’ll to seek solace in dreams of forest and lakes,
glades and silvery
carpets of glowing butterflies.
As for the ship, she can pretend to be a swan.