His True Calling
Briny water splashes waves against the dock.
Mother Ocean’s breeze moistens leathered
skin. Salt sprays slap his contented face.
A thin layer cracks fissures in dry lips.
Wafts of rotten shrimp, slimy fish guts.
Discarded bait like incense burns.
Childhood memories up in smoke.
One tarnished past fades away.
A state of mind. Water is his refuge,
his true calling. Standing at the ocean’s
edge once again. His thin and lanky frame
a pillar. On the horizon a ship appears, moves
closer, docks. Has it really been two hours?
Prompts: Poetic Bloomings and Sunday Scribblings