Ride we the curled, cresting salt;
Cling to the back of a wing-ed horse;
Drift we through warm waters
Rotten with flowers,
Float we, on a phantom, on Hope
On Grace.
©Hemmingplay 2015
Advertisements
HemmingPlay
https://hemmingplay.wordpress.com/about/ More at the link. I remember him. He was sitting in the heat on the dock waiting for the ferry to Okracoke, Island in the Outer Banks, NC. It was probably sometime in '72 or '73. He'd driven nearly 12 hours straight and was so tired he couldn't understand the accents of the natives there. I wonder whatever happened to him? I heard a rumor that he married a skinny Irish girl and they settled down somewhere, had a couple of boys, got old. He put on a few pounds. She's still got the girlish shape that caught his eye all those years ago. He probably still has that shirt, though, and still wishes he looked like this. The idiot.
June 3, 2015 at 8:05 PM
Your words here are as majestic as the ocean
am:)
LikeLiked by 1 person
June 3, 2015 at 8:18 PM
Thank you, AM.
LikeLike
June 3, 2015 at 8:19 PM
You are welcome, my friend.
am:)
LikeLike