While in the moonlit night he stood,
his crew below asleep,
the captain gazed with knowing eyes
upon the ocean deep.
A sinister tranquility
was fleeing in the path
of moaning wind grown resolute
in showing forth its wrath.
The moon, a pale pearl paradox,
stared calmly down at him.
Then angry clouds obscured her face
and everything was dim.
Behind the captain’s knowing eyes,
his thoughts had grown astray.
They took him to another place
where once he used to play.
He stood among the acres of
unmoving solid ground,
and other waves were stalks of grain
the wind blew all around.
The first of many undulations
crashed onto the ship.
He pictured rippling golden wheat
and felt his vessel dip.
The men, awakened, clamored now.
He prayed their deaths be swift
and gripped the wheel to navigate
a ghastly forceful lift.
Imagining hot prairie sun,
he viewed the huge cold swell
that came to bury them. . . and closed
those eyes that knew too well.