Littoral

The wind faces us down, a bitter housemaster seeing our tricks, he raises his willowy cane, jealous of our freedom and wings Then pitiless comes the mighty blow,rips the boys hand from the sea/a thousand lines I must drive my cutter to the wind I must drive my cutter to the wind And planets hidden by the clouds, jostle for place so that a man might see, and take to their contrary taste, while The briny rope on brass lugs and staysail winch and flapping watery forehatch, scream for solace in the Brassy ferment; and in the heavens, a widow’s veil contains the sludge-black clouds above, where seagulls and pitiless puffins, with filled-bills, carry their fishy death to nest. And on the shore perfidious, dread-filled processions of daughters and wiry sons, keep the vigil by the hearth; where wild wive's wombs, upset by thunder’s booms, wade their watery tombs.