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FALL/ WINTER 2017

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Barbara Southard

STORM ON THE GREAT SOUTH BAY

The boat nosed deep into a gathering mass of waves
and when it reached its lowest point,
came to a standstill amidst a wall of water on all sides, 
then raised its bow toward the black cave of a moonless night
taking us over the crest each time 
while rain beat hard against the glass.

We sat huddled in the cabin, 
Father searching for the rising, falling bell of the buoy,
Mother reciting the rosary in the flickering lightening, roar of wind.  

We made it to the cove that night and fell into deep curled sleep. 
Dawn broke with a gentle lapping of light-struck water 
against the hull 
smell of salt rising from the living sea. 


 

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