When the sea is rough
waves crash on the window panes,
depositing salt into the crevices;
washing away grime collected over time.

Sitting by the window
all I see are ominous black clouds
and the blue green water foaming
and my own reflection on the window pane.

The house sits on an old wooden pole
dug into the ocean floor
by some giant god
an unthinkable time ago.

The pole looks unimaginably old
with slime and barnacles hanging on,
but the pole is strong,
unmoving, despite the roaring water all around.

It’s the house I’m worried about;
I built it with my own hands,
from the rotting timber
of ships that wrecked against the pole.

Now my house creaks and whines
with every wave that hits it;
echoes of the cries of drowning sailors
who never got to say goodbye.

But for now my house stands;
I’m still here,
looking out the window
for a glimpse of sunshine
through a break in the clouds.