Early morning fog rolled
off the Atlantic, ethereal over the shore.
The spill of salt,
like a relic of time
filled every breath I took.
On lobster boats bells dangled inside
moist white air,
and moorings clanged to waken the sea
with whispers of silhouettes
that stirred like morning
as I gazed over the ocean to you,
and a life not yet led.
Whether an echo past,
a déjà vu, perhaps
a longing or a knowing
I had faith
that you and I would love.
Faintly blinking through the canvass of air,
like the song of seagulls, it culls
across the translucent fog
to determine whether it was memory,
Tides have changed
faith replaced by doubt.
I sometimes feel lost at sea
with the haunting of pirates
searching for treasures that may not exist,
because this world of scientists
of theory and paradox
keep me from listening to whispers
and from seeing reincarnated silhouettes.
How do we know we are meant to be?
The salt still tastes the same when I breathe
and the ocean is still filled with the same water
though time has shifted beyond youth,
past mythology and dream.
You and I do love,
as we did in that strange memory,
that amorphous premonition
on the Atlantic shores
when I was young
and you were foam born on the other shore.
Now, I know that you are real
even if I’ve never touched you
and that I adore you though I’ve never
felt your skin.
I rely on you, my love
as the sailor coming home relies on his lantern,
and it’s your faith
that makes me certain the sun will rise
above the horizon,
as surely as the whispers of these silhouettes
– past, present, future –
are the songs of each new life we lead,
- Add a