Liquid Silver

This is the first of several short poems I wrote sitting at the bow of the Research Vessel Thomas G. Thompson during my month-long sojourn at sea this August and September.


Liquid silver rolling like hills, pushing
     ship to crest and running past to chase
     the albatross.

From afar, the vast round disk of ocean is flat, but,
     there's nothing flat here. It's all rolling,
     wandering, mixing, moving in every direction
     every moment.

Strong swell from a distant storm slide smoothly
     beneath the silver sun.

And the iron ribs of our ship comply:
     rising, falling, ever following
     the will of the waves.