On the 52nd

The night's whispered breeze bears with it

            a hush to temper the day's panic along the heights

            of the New England coastal cliffs.

The Gulf Stream prods the Atlantic

            to throw its waves into the feet of the cliffs.

In doing so, it creates its own self-congratulatory

            thunderous applause.

Upon the precipice of the cliffs, remains

            a solitary man of many years.

Clouds, being done with their assorted duties,

            retire for the night and leave behind

            a sky of sparkling brilliance to keep company

            with the solitary man, a former sea captain.

Many boats he had skippered among the reefs and shoals; 

Yet, his eyes were ever vigilant to the white froth of the shallows.

Whether forced to the windward on a hard tack,

            or on a broad run comfortably skimming in the lee of the shoals,

            the captain never dragged his keel on the hidden rocks.

Such was this man's skill that  land-lovers felt safer

            with him at the helm in a reckless storm than in a carriage

            on a quiet country road.

Of all the ships he had captained, only one had ever foundered;

            and that was proven to not be his fault.

The many others had finished their courses

            and had known many points on the charts.

Boats he had commanded, not all were dreams:

            some had been scows and weathered brigs.

But to each he had been faithful, not considering

            one less than another.

Standing on the cliff's precipice, his posture

            is exactly as if he were on a ship's bridge.

Still he is alert, watching the shoals and gauging the wind

            as he watches younger captains take the helms of ships

            through the twisting channel and into the sea

            with the night settled in, cuddling the little ones into a sleep.

           

            Love, your son, Ernie

            Blessed Father's Day,  2005