A seascape of luminous ivory
scrimshaws itself into view.
As if they were the dusk of the gods,
rolling fog and sea spray
entwine like Canova's Three Graces.
In the harbor, fishing boats bob and sway at anchor,
moored in a milky tableau vivant;
water slaps gently against the hulls.
A bell buoy clangs elsewhere,
muffled by the pelting showers,
its toll as plaintive
as Satie's Gnossiennes.
The bell is a ghost's soliloquy;
not a seagull can be heard.
The interminable drizzle has silenced
even those raucous creatures.
They sit afloat and inert,
each a precarious still life,
a transient frieze,
soon to vanish in nature's
untamed impermanence.
The lighthouse stands deadpan,
bronze plated
with the forgotten names
of the vanquished,
lost in the remorseless sea.
Sailors' bones are
their own bleak scrimshaw,
adrift on Neptune's continent
of ebony depths,
ridden by tides beating
to geological time.
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