Tall Masts
Tall masts pierce the morning haze
their solid shafts plunge golden skies
they ride the heaving, rolling waves
and with each thrusting gasp
drive forward with impassioned sighs.
Upon the deck
the master grips the rounded wheel
worn and silky to his touch
he claims the course, without yield
and in the wild winds
he whispers "hush."
And where the sea at last
in reverence sleeps
in reverence sleeps
her swollen, thrusting waves
becalmed and spent
the Master glides his hand
upon her rail
keen on every curve and every bent.
The taste of victory upon his tongue
sweet as a lover's honey-scented flow
A steady hand, a solid mast and he
keep the vessel steady as she goes.
For Kazar Bruhl
Purple Hudson (Anna St. Francis)