Return
We head home, skirting along the coast,
humble before catapulting waves;
the lighthouse near invisible
if not for a single band of red.
The sea becomes veiled by industry
and our marvels are man-made:
a sunken streak of ashen clouds
merely ghosts from the smokestacks.
I turn from the rain-streaked window,
pry open my book with a sigh.
Unfurling in the dense warmth,
we murmur a grace for this shelter.
humble before catapulting waves;
the lighthouse near invisible
if not for a single band of red.
The sea becomes veiled by industry
and our marvels are man-made:
a sunken streak of ashen clouds
merely ghosts from the smokestacks.
I turn from the rain-streaked window,
pry open my book with a sigh.
Unfurling in the dense warmth,
we murmur a grace for this shelter.
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Author's Note
Originally published in Whisker, Issue One.
Other stories by Hazem Tagiuri
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"The sea becomes veiled by industry"
Nice.
"Our marvels are man made" -- like this line. Makes me think of how much we focus on and esteem what we, as a species, create. Maybe to the exclusion of other, equally marvelous, things.
Spot on, Frankie. Always been interested in the clash between nature / its elements and humans / our constructs.
We're aliens shipwrecked in a beautiful world, determined to sow the smokestacks where we will.
Fine lines.
Thanks, Jean. "Sow the smokestacks" -- love that.