The Ghost of John

He hung there, a sobering sight, like the full moon on a misty night. John Riox, smothered in slime, ghastly ghost adrift in time. He wrestles ropes of rubbery kelp, his sunken eyes pleading for help. The sight of him will leave you numb. He moans for mercy that never comes. Eleven sailors lost their lives, left their children, left their wives. The Saxby Gale tore up the shore, shaking hands with Tidal Bore. Sardines knew a storm was near. The fishermen found empty weirs. That should have given them a clue. Across the waves a south wind blew. Grand Manan lost every ship. Forests fell, rooftops ripped. What wicked witch could cast a spell that wiggled through the gates of Hell? If you're ever down near Dead Man's Cove, so the story's often told, a pair of legs might wander by. So keep your wits when specters fly. The ghost of John appears to some. Perhaps you'll be the lucky one. He's waiting for a friendly wind to come and blow him home again.