FADING VIEW

To view the rolling ocean deep, and smell the mist so clean,
and hear the call of sea birds small who live in twisted trees that lean
against the wind that whistles low, mid cliffs and rocks of green
which face the westward moaning song, and whip the view serene.

This place is where the sailors go who's ships no longer sail,
that cut into the lashing brine with teeth bared at the gale.
This place where wind and spirit mix beneath the sky so pale
that threatens them for never more as when they rode the plank and nail.

They dream as though so young again, with soul and muscle strong:
of days gone past; and nights so long;
of times of drink and times of song;
the scent of food mysterious; and women's eyes at sunset's gong.

Time does not wait before its gate, but passes still as dreams run through
into the far awaiting dim, where new men learn their lessons true
to feel the current's mighty dew,
then end the cycle once again within the ocean's view.