Lyme Regis

~after Edgar James Maybery

Though smaller than the cliffs

of Folkestone and Dover,

the cliffs of Lyme Regis

bring back memories

of sailing from England

to Calais.

This is a lonely landscape —

a solitary boat in the

still, open water and

a cluster of masts, one bow,

and a small fishing boat

that blur in a mass of black ink.

The scene is without man

or woman; even the house

on the cliff, built into the

rock bed beneath,

is a solitary monument.

This is a landscape

I embrace on hazy days

following sleepless nights.

The loneliness and stillness

of the boats that men plied

reflect the emptiness

in our lives as we

shelter in place, isolated

from human contact.

This small scene, a captivation

in ink, hints at a vastness

beyond the frame,

an open sea of possibility

and hopes that are tamed

by the inevitable storm.