The Spyglass

The Spyglass

The swirling black comes crashing forth,
Tipped with stallions riding north.
Of weary palms too tired to stand
The bitter onslaught on the sands
Too new to have sprouted roots.

For on the lower deck I dwell
And The Sleeve's sweet, salty air I smell.
Bearing softly in the breeze,
Shouting loud, to a quiet tease.
Her towering gaze as she traps my eye,
Flowing she waves behind her stride,
A smile so soft I couldn't hide,
Imprisoned, yet pleased to be,
Locked in Silent confinement.

A rose amongst the rough my sea
Her casual grace before me,
Singing with cheeks aflame,
I would not dare and choose to name
The queen who tides my heart.