Gazing Windward On a Summer's Evening

Gazing Windward on a summer’s evening Loch David Crane 1981 Whose waves these are, I think I know: his home is in the sea below. He will not see me stopping here to watch the whitecaps come and go. Enlisted sailors think me weird -- civilian with no duty near— they stop to wonder, one or two, if they can help me out of here. Up from the depths comes royal blue, which lightens into turquoise too; the aerating bubbles rise dissolved to see the cycle through. Dark and deep beneath the skies the pulses in the ocean rise. So lonely, not a seagull cries; so lonely. Not a seagull cries.