Always the Weather

The land drops away,
and ahead is nothing but horizon
and weather,

always the weather,
seasons of storms,
and the search for safe ports,

where the storms do not reach.

They are few, these ports,
and often hidden, places of surprise,
of emotions and geography

not explored,
dark places – dark not in fear or evil,
no,

dark simply
because you have yet to raise your lamp
and see them,

as apt to be Monte Cristo’s cave
as hell, beautifully unexplored
waiting, just waiting

for someone
to open their depths,
to set sail

less in faith than hope,
less from need than desire,
even knowing there is

always the weather.

About this poem

I am suddenly on multiple journeys in my life, the shorelines all changing at once, more horizon than port. And of course, the weather.

As a boy, I learned to sail, a most unpredictable, and exciting, and calming way to travel, where you may know the destination, but your path is not yours to choose, but the winds’.

The Count of Monte Cristo is my favorite novel of all time. Read first when I was ten, I have read it countless times since.

The picture was taken at Mystic Seaport, CT.

Tom