The Wicked Come

 

 

 

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 Rainbow Reed ©2010