Sometimes a painting or a place stirs up more of a poem instead of any sort of story. Not sure what I was thinking here, but when I pulled up my notes on this one, this poem is all I had written down. Make of it what you will…

—

Bones of old ships
Left basking in the sun
The mast of an ancient whale
That swallowed the sailor’s son
Observed, measured, recorded
Love notes in the margin
In their book of numbers
Written but never done

It’s the allure of the sea
It’s the stairway to heaven
It’s the ticket that was rendered
For breaking the number seven

On that distant ship
Out near the horizon
They observe the charts
and adhere to strict notations
Students of the sea and sky
And of the publication
Of their book of numbers
Printed but still in revision

It’s all here and plain to see
When you separate the many from the few
They shout a holy countdown
But the answer is found in the long view