Zenith
Starlight falling, clarion calling through the crystal mist,
a velvet deep pierced, shoals salted in tranquility dripping up the mast lines
swaying, the Santana laying here above the seascape, lost and found wanting, somehow,
yet never there to be fallen.
Vertical
Roars the light cannon, cloaked once afield, leaping from the seawall.
Powder kegs shattered, the slate dust plumes ringing with the deafening static must of a moment
seared in time, etched at the close of the sea-sky gateway.
Horizon
Woven in sweet-scented garlands of silverfish soaring
through the sunrise arc, angelic parades, nimble meteor showers
heralded by the shorebreak, whispers to the palms stooped in pensive huddles,
“Awake! Rise to the ripe shipyards sweetly desolate of mechanism,” freely swaying to the breeze tune,
glinting finales to a shadow watch.