Longingly I looked out across the ocean,
the sun setting on the far horizon
like a drop of crimson fire softly burning
amidst the violaceous passion of the sea;
I reached out my hand as if to touch it
as the spray gently wisped across my face,
leaving the salty taste of long-lost memories on my tongue:

How long has it been my sweet siren,
since your gulls have sung into my ear?
The ebb and crash of the waves e'er dancing,
the white-frothed waves breaking on the shore;
a mellifluous symphony composed tonight,
perfect harmonies blending into the west-wind
as it carries a sailor's song back home.
Is this melody just for me?

I look up with desire at the smoky clouds o'erhead,
made muted but glorious still for their miasmic beauty,
rising like ghosts of the waters below
whose bones long ago they left in the murky deep,
but now their souls are risen into the great canvas of sky;

And on the painter's field, great splotches of color
those wayward ghosts throw against the firmament of blue;
violet and scarlet, indigo and beryl,
as if to say "Look now, our masterpiece in death
made complete as it could not be done in life."
Truly, it is beautiful.

I look upon the waters with nostalgia for a life,
which, like the gull's feather wafting on the breeze,
is forever just out of reach, resting only in the past;
the sun is a drop of crimson fire softly burning
amidst the violet and turbulent sea,
brilliant and beautiful beyond words,
always just slightly out of reach.