The Traveller

All throughout  

      shrewd sea winds courted us

Gangs of raucous avians

      swim through the rain

Loud aching cries of pain

      echo

As the luminous sea fog

      erodes in skeins

With the rising of  watery suns

Bluntly formless stone beasts rise

       narrow lights slice  

A low sepulchral moan

       stains the silence of the rushing seas

Formless figures bustle

       evading sight

Licking salt encrusted lips

Leaping as the vessel stumbles

       onto an alien shore

I breathe a sigh of relief

Then reality invades my silent reverie

       rising to a deafening crescendo

Home is far away.

Tim Wood

I have written 14 books, working on my 15th and trying to get published. I am finally not just writing for myself.

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