The Ocean Is A Mighty Whore

The is no other place that compares to the ocean.

Her power over man’s elation bonds the soul to her majestic beauty.

I bonded shortly after learning to walk to her shorelines.

My all-time favourite place for solitude being “Saint’s Rest”. A stretch of beach on the Bay of Fundy, west of Saint John, New Brunswick.

Where from the age of six, I would often disappear to when I runaway from yet one more foster home.

In latter teenage years, I would take pilgrimages to her mighty shores.

Hoping there to find solace and solitude.

There, amongst the songs of crashing waves.

Listening to their rhythmic heartbeats.

Her songs of serenity.

With eyes closed, my body swaying,

Siren’s songs whispering,

Carried upon salt scented winds,

Far within seaside caverns.

Standing in shame guilted

Broken promise like a flower wilted

I left home 45 years ago.

Reasons I still not know.

Betraying an oath of devotion

Long ago sworn to that ocean

Never to return.

Forever to miss the rhythm of cascading waves.

Forever having the yearning desire to return to her mighty grasp.

Never again to dance crazily in her mighty winds.

The ocean, she is a mighty whore.

Even the Moon obeys her will.

I miss her evermore.

Far inland I stand here still.

Missing the whore’s beckoning roar.

How I wish I were there to adore.