Submitted by Brian Geiger
Weathered boats breathe with the Tyrrhenian Sea
Which glittered like gems or sunlight through canopies
On creaking wood and sun-darkened men
Pouring hake and salmon from buckets to ice bins.
And there’s family up a-ways mending a sail
In a garden-wreathed shack aged many decades,
Caught in its shade and the breeze flowing in
As the Tyrrhenian emptied its chest and birthed wind.
They say on the northernmost hill by the sea
An American chips away at the earth,
that same breeze tumbling up and around him
That same sea swelling and salting his lips.
How deep one can dig with a brush and trowel
If he works through the night and far through the day
Dusting the ruins few else seem to see
Because ancient to them is not ancient to he
Who comes from a world where old is quite new
Where the sea and the earth are bereft
Of a similar tune.
Some of the younger boys spied from the brush,
Not as stained by the sun as their fathers yet.
He’d have shown them his tools. Or asked for a glass.
But his work had been long and his eyes had grown tired.
So he just laid back. And he let the world take him.
And he thought to himself, how strange
That the sea smells like Ravel sounds
And that the breath of the Tyrrhenian
Sings of Debussy.
About the Author
Brian is the editor of Vita Brevis, a popular online literary magazine that he founded in 2017. He’s also a university student studying to become a psychotherapist, and in his free time, he’s a freelance writer for numerous publications and clients. Some of his personal publications can be found here.
Photo Credit: Mending the Sail – Joaquin Sorolla