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Jul 7
fresh white sails
clean air of possibility
f r e e
undoubtedly as

I cast another anchor
into the vastness of blue
tethered by that which I
cling to.
There is joy in the ebb, the shore
but the choosing
is what kills the air;
stifles my sails

I can hear the ocean beneath my feet
I can see the distant horizon

They say “set you sights”
But what if I’ve lost
the looking glass?
Another ocean poem and I’m not even on vacation... Sunday July 7, 2019
Ashley Kaye
Written by
Ashley Kaye  18/F
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