Across these waters, there are times
when you will hear the wind raising
something like a whisper
between each hiss and crash of wave
against the shore.
Sad and uncertain,
as though the sea recalled
some long forgotten name or face
rising out of a distant past,
Almost a word.
Then there is not even the silence
anymore, not arms thrown up
across the single lantern held before the face,
not rain or breaking thunder
or the blinding rush
of wave after faltering wave
gathering into darkness
Only the stillness, and the whisper,
and the voice of someone in you
suddenly crying with tears
even you cannot see.