I am a child of the Sargasso.
My clarion sounds unheard.
Seagulls hover overhead for any
sighting of their nourishment.
Below a tiny crab perchance might
serve for now, a momentary snack,
or perhaps a periwinkle with a
conch shell coiled upon its back.
But who is the Governor of our
seaweed fields, our punctual ocean
tides, allowing us to filter nutrients
in this delicate protozoan world.
One cannot give an answer for the
truth, since ship wrecks come and go
with transient time, and undercurrents
follow fields of old magnetic floes.
Some claim they hear a ship’s bell
clanging out a steady rhyme – but as
for time, and tales that Trident tells,
I baulk to speak about such happenings.
Although I see the flying fish darting
above the waves when barmy breezes
blow and whisper, Holy Cow, whatever
will our universe come up with next?