Rogue Wave

Mariner drifts toward sleep,
rocking to ocean's pulse,
a lantern aglow in darkness.
Dark thoughts ebb and flow
to memories of first mate's voice,
hair windblown across the sun,
orange, kissing the horizon.
Grim warnings proclaimed,
of dangers looming ahead,
where two Oceans' swells
clash off Cape Horn,
spawning freakish mountains,
rogues thirsting for death.
Crewmen grew somber,
heard tales of vessels
swallowed in one gulp,
flooded, capsized, crushed,
wreckage tossed upon the reefs.
The sky darkened, wind rose,
sailors huddled in cliques
whispering mutiny.
Reverse course for safe haven
their call to each other.
Leaden hearts, sullen faces,
as souls reconciled with God,
hearts bade farewell
to families, loves.

Now, in storm-tossed slumber,
Mariner sees his own face,
creased skin tanned to leather,
slack jaw wet with spray.
Beyond the ship's pitching bow,
a mountain rises from the abyss,
occults the clouded horizon,
the ocean retreating before
monster wave's advance.
Alone, he shrieks with terror,
canvased caravel diving,
seeking water's sinking face.
Ahead, the mountain steepens.
A towering green cliff
rises to steal the sky.
The precipice curls into lips
foaming rabid with death's rage.
The vessel's hull dashes, howling,
planks gnashed and spit forth
upon a reef's pink jaws,
exposed by the ocean's retreat.
Weeping eyes gaze skyward
to gasps for breath,
limbs broken, numb with cold.
The wave thunders downward,
curling, collapsing gracefully,
black glass fist crushing
a heart welcoming death.

Mariner springs awake,
heart racing, skin cold.
He feels relief upon
dream's realization.
The resonant crash of water
shocks him to awareness.
The ship sways rhythmically
to the fury of waves grown huge.
He staggers through darkness,
hands braced for balance,
steps clumsy, slow from sleep.
Crew bunks empty at midnight,
then muffled shouts from above
send him running, climbing,
mind filled with visions of doom.
He reaches the pitching deck,
spies crewmen clutching rails
first mate standing mid-deck,
face twisted, ugly with fear.
Rigging sings to wind gusts,
yard arms creak in concert.
A battered hull plows through
relentless waves marching.
Mariner joins the crew, gazes
across tormented waters,
to crests foaming, faces glistening
in cloud-veiled moonlight.
Eyes strain, fingers point
to gasps and shouts of men
struggling to distinguish
waves from hills from mountains.
Somewhere, unseen in dark of night
a killer plies the depths.

Scott Speck
1998