Slowly drifting far away
within the wood of bonded clay
breaking bands with public light
which skews amongst the cabin’s fright.

“Take me on (I want to stay?)
it won’t be long before I say
that moving forward, back to sea
was simply where I had to be.”

But gales of wind keep me back,
those gusts of mourning, breezes black.
which is right, the sea or shore?
taking less or giving more?

It does not speak, the matter’s done
the boat has launched, the deed is sung!

Within the moaning sound of pain
a whisper shouts it’s last refrain
reminds me how the tethered land
stole myself, abhorred my stand.

Turn about, forget the past!
hoist the sail upon the mast!
fight the wind of black delight
forward, forward, canvas white!

The crumbling earth left far behind
was not foundation, how did it bind
my heart to man, to mocking scorn
blowing forth the tempter’s horn?

Storms or calm within the sea
each will give my heart to Thee
those who thrust my boat from shore
only made my heart give more.

Thirsty raindrops wash my face;
tears announce His sweet embrace.

A Rough Sea With Fishing Boat by Joseph Mallord William Turner