Late in the day you rest your eyes and listen to the water,
the soothing dance of waves on a calm November day,
a day when the sun is almost warm
and the winds are quiet. If you stand still,
you can feel the faintest heat through your flannel shirt.
Blue space. That is what they call it. The sea,
at times soulful still and at times passionate, orgasmic
in it’s raging power, an empty giant that fills your vision
with empty space, only it’s power showing,
It has captured your soul, this strange gift of God
that changes with the sun, with the season, with
the whims of weather and wind. Blue space,
the color of creation and calm, and it has waited
until your old age to call you, willing
to let you wander dry land for a generation,
but like a lover certain of her allure,
calls you back in your days of gray hair, knowing
you will come.
About this poem
I have written before of how, in my older age, I have felt the call of oceans, how I find my peace there, where once I found it in mountains and dry land.
The woman I love recently shared an article with me. It seems there is a word for this call. It’s called “Blue Space”, and I have it, like a benevolent disease, bad.