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Deliciously Wicked Writing

The Mystic Isle

The isle arose from swirling mists,
Slicing through the broken skies,
Lurking beneath the whitened waters,
Dark hungry fangs of piercing stone
Impatiently waiting for their prey:
A trawler beached on Mystic Rock.

Darkened creatures with heads of foam,
Shake seaweed hair and madly moan.
Watch wood crash into surging tides,
Splinters fly, while the drowning cry.
The snarling sea stalks and pounces
On trawler clinging to Mystic Rock.

The sun rose high, in sapphire sky.
Isle slumbers under soft  lapping tides,
Grey seals basking  on granite teeth,
Boisterous seagulls’ scream and fly,
As aged man stumbles on the shore,
Dry seaweed crackling under foot.
 
He stops and stares, his eyes aglow,
His prayers were answered in the night,
As driftwood forest floats into sight,
Flung against the rocky shore,
The captain sits on his granite  throne
Carving trawler wrecked
On Mystic Rock.


by P.J. Reed ©2010
 

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