The Mariner’s Last Tide
Beneath a sky of ash and iron whispers,
Where gulls now kneel as ghosts to mourn the shore,
A vessel, cracked like an old man’s knuckles,
Creeps into the cove of a nameless yore—
A village slumped where cliffs embrace the sea,
Its cottages like rotted teeth in stone,
And windows staring, hollow as the plea
Of one who sails forever, yet finds no home.
The mariner, salt-scarred and crowned with storms,
Steps onto sand that weeps beneath his tread.
No lanterns bloom to guide him through the gloam;
No voice remains to name the living dead.
Yet memory, that fickle, flickering wisp,
Unspools the years to days when sails were white—
When Elara’s laugh danced brighter than the moon’s kiss,
And vows were sworn beneath the cliff’s pale height.
*“Return,”* she whispered, *“ere the autumn’s last leaf falls—*
*Or else the sea shall claim what it has sown.”*
He kissed her brow, where dusk’s soft shadow sprawled,
And pledged his heart to her, and her alone.
But fate, that serpent coiled in tides and time,
Sank fangs deep into maps he dared to trust—
A tempest’s maw devoured his vessel’s climb,
And chained him far from shore, to waves unjust.
Ten winters gnawed the hull of his resolve,
Ten springs he scraped the barnacles of dread,
Until the day the ocean chose to dissolve
Its prisoner—but not the ghosts it bred.
Now here he stands, where home once swore to wait,
Breathing the rot of kelp and fractured vows,
While through the fog, a figure, frail as fate,
Glides soundless as a shadow through drowned boughs.
Her hair, once fire beneath the harvest moon,
Now streams like seaweed in a spectral tide.
Her eyes, twin voids where stars once dared to swoon,
Burn through his soul. *“You lingered,”* she replied,
*“Too long, my love. The shore forgot your name.
The village sank beneath its salted scars.
I died with autumn’s leaf—yet grief remains,
A barnacle that clings to time’s cold bars.”*
He reaches, but his fingers clutch the mist.
Her voice, a dirge hummed through the rotting pines:
*“You swore to break the waves for one last kiss—*
*Now kiss the void where life and longing twine.”*
The cliffs collapse in echoes of her wail.
The sea, a rabid beast, devours the strand.
He stumbles where her cottage, frail and pale,
Crumbles like bone dissolved by sorrow’s hand.
Inside, a table set for two collects the dust—
Two pewter plates, two goblets cracked with thirst.
A locket, clasping strands of hair now rust,
Whispers of hearts that broke the moment they burst.
He clasps the rusted chain, its bite a creed:
*“All oaths are knots the sea unties with ease.”*
The floorboards yawn, the roof admits the weed,
And walls exhale the breath of old disease.
The tide, a thief, slips through the door and claims
His ankles, knees, the ache within his chest.
He does not fight—for what are mortal frames
But driftwood for the ocean’s endless quest?
Yet as the brine gnaws past his sunken eyes,
He sees her hand, now skeletal and stark,
Reach through the gloom where daylight never lies—
A anchor’s chain, a whisper in the dark.
*“Forgive,”* he gasps, but seawater fills the prayer.
Their fingers brush—a spark, then endless night.
The village sighs and sinks beneath the lair
Of waves that grind all hope to salted white.
Above, the gulls still wheel in futile arcs,
Their cries the only epitaph he’ll own:
*Here lies a man who tethered his heart’s arcs
To tides that spare no vow, and drown all stone.*
Now fishermen, in realms where shores still thrive,
Speak of a cove where moonlight never sleeps—
Where two faint shadows waltz in tides, alive
Yet dead, entwined where ocean’s heartbeat weeps.
And some swear on the silence of their nets
They hear her hum the lullaby she sang
When men were gods, and love could pay all debts—
Before the sea taught time to snap their fang.
But truth, like anchors, sinks where none can see.
The mariner and maid are foam and myth.
Yet still, when storms carve hymns of tragedy,
The waves repeat their tale of shattered pith:
That hope, once cast to depths no light can stalk,
Becomes the sea’s grim feast, the shore’s lament—
A lesson etched in salt on every rock:
*No oath outlives the tide’s inexorable bent.*
Where gulls now kneel as ghosts to mourn the shore,
A vessel, cracked like an old man’s knuckles,
Creeps into the cove of a nameless yore—
A village slumped where cliffs embrace the sea,
Its cottages like rotted teeth in stone,
And windows staring, hollow as the plea
Of one who sails forever, yet finds no home.
The mariner, salt-scarred and crowned with storms,
Steps onto sand that weeps beneath his tread.
No lanterns bloom to guide him through the gloam;
No voice remains to name the living dead.
Yet memory, that fickle, flickering wisp,
Unspools the years to days when sails were white—
When Elara’s laugh danced brighter than the moon’s kiss,
And vows were sworn beneath the cliff’s pale height.
*“Return,”* she whispered, *“ere the autumn’s last leaf falls—*
*Or else the sea shall claim what it has sown.”*
He kissed her brow, where dusk’s soft shadow sprawled,
And pledged his heart to her, and her alone.
But fate, that serpent coiled in tides and time,
Sank fangs deep into maps he dared to trust—
A tempest’s maw devoured his vessel’s climb,
And chained him far from shore, to waves unjust.
Ten winters gnawed the hull of his resolve,
Ten springs he scraped the barnacles of dread,
Until the day the ocean chose to dissolve
Its prisoner—but not the ghosts it bred.
Now here he stands, where home once swore to wait,
Breathing the rot of kelp and fractured vows,
While through the fog, a figure, frail as fate,
Glides soundless as a shadow through drowned boughs.
Her hair, once fire beneath the harvest moon,
Now streams like seaweed in a spectral tide.
Her eyes, twin voids where stars once dared to swoon,
Burn through his soul. *“You lingered,”* she replied,
*“Too long, my love. The shore forgot your name.
The village sank beneath its salted scars.
I died with autumn’s leaf—yet grief remains,
A barnacle that clings to time’s cold bars.”*
He reaches, but his fingers clutch the mist.
Her voice, a dirge hummed through the rotting pines:
*“You swore to break the waves for one last kiss—*
*Now kiss the void where life and longing twine.”*
The cliffs collapse in echoes of her wail.
The sea, a rabid beast, devours the strand.
He stumbles where her cottage, frail and pale,
Crumbles like bone dissolved by sorrow’s hand.
Inside, a table set for two collects the dust—
Two pewter plates, two goblets cracked with thirst.
A locket, clasping strands of hair now rust,
Whispers of hearts that broke the moment they burst.
He clasps the rusted chain, its bite a creed:
*“All oaths are knots the sea unties with ease.”*
The floorboards yawn, the roof admits the weed,
And walls exhale the breath of old disease.
The tide, a thief, slips through the door and claims
His ankles, knees, the ache within his chest.
He does not fight—for what are mortal frames
But driftwood for the ocean’s endless quest?
Yet as the brine gnaws past his sunken eyes,
He sees her hand, now skeletal and stark,
Reach through the gloom where daylight never lies—
A anchor’s chain, a whisper in the dark.
*“Forgive,”* he gasps, but seawater fills the prayer.
Their fingers brush—a spark, then endless night.
The village sighs and sinks beneath the lair
Of waves that grind all hope to salted white.
Above, the gulls still wheel in futile arcs,
Their cries the only epitaph he’ll own:
*Here lies a man who tethered his heart’s arcs
To tides that spare no vow, and drown all stone.*
Now fishermen, in realms where shores still thrive,
Speak of a cove where moonlight never sleeps—
Where two faint shadows waltz in tides, alive
Yet dead, entwined where ocean’s heartbeat weeps.
And some swear on the silence of their nets
They hear her hum the lullaby she sang
When men were gods, and love could pay all debts—
Before the sea taught time to snap their fang.
But truth, like anchors, sinks where none can see.
The mariner and maid are foam and myth.
Yet still, when storms carve hymns of tragedy,
The waves repeat their tale of shattered pith:
That hope, once cast to depths no light can stalk,
Becomes the sea’s grim feast, the shore’s lament—
A lesson etched in salt on every rock:
*No oath outlives the tide’s inexorable bent.*
“`
