Small Craft Warnings

The angry slap of waves against the boat
in a sea both ominous and grey;
my brother, steering, worried and remote
at the helm, his face turned toward the spray.

The sky begins to dim and move in close
I hug myself as damp and chill move in.
We still have miles to go before the coast;
My brother grits his teeth and sets his chin.

A sting of first-blown rain assaults my cheek.
Our boat is sliding in fantastic swells.
My lips are now too cold to move, to speak
as all around I hear the buoy bells.

The waves are beating faster and have grown,
approaching like wet soldiers stern to port.
I close my eyes and try to think of home;
My brother's breath is coming fast and short.

Faint, through shades of rain, I think I see
lights blink off and on from distant land.
But such safe refuge isn't meant to be.
My brother wipes his eyes with trembling hands.

And as he peers into the darkening sky
I feel we have both been here before.
It's not the sky that weeps but he and I
always searching, searching for the shore.