Blind channel and banshee, with family
of frigate birds scowling loudly, full moon
hiding, then sliding from behind dark lee
of cumulus, and our Fifie—sails soon
to catch rising gale, bend us away past
Isle of Man through glowing, seething Irish
Sea—will test our ageless endurance, vast,
flamed passion for life and bonding, famished
by fear this sad year of loss, lingering
witches of despair howling outside our
dim halls, their scrawny, pale hands fingering
chilled air, urging us to follow, cower
at their feet. Hold tight to me, love. Attend
to stars as I steer through this lashing wind.
Roger Armbrust
April 4, 2009
