A patter of waves,
my hands adrift,
no silence soothes this graveyard shift.
My beacon turns and unveils the night
as I ache for calming in this forlorn rite.
I’ve no shelter from the maelstrom
gathering across the sea.
I’ve known for so many years now
the fate that falls before me.
The ocean grants
a melancholic gift;
a patter of waves, my hands adrift.