The Mariner

Having come through the storm,
whose eye held fixed the center of my life,
for so many years that I have forgotten peace,
what bearing should tempt me toward its horizon?

Is my purpose now fulfilled that I should
come about with a finished bow, tacking
against time into the surge of MY storm,
with no one to hear the lilting swan's aria?

Ashore, the noise and lights of town
are swelling in a crest of song and ale,
dance and kisses, money and women,
loud enough, bright enough to quell any storm.

But the lights are a beacon to me,
and those songs a clanging buoy,
warning of the rocky shore. Whch needle points,
which star directs, to those calmer waters?