The Atlantic Ocean

Atlantic, Brine‑Scented

Beneath a skies‑washed, salt‑white horizon, The Atlantic throws its wide‑armed braiding of waves To the unit coast of a very old, steadfast nation, Where trade‑laced gulls swoop across the horizon’s frame.

The monsoon‑lit sea has sung to weary sailors, Whose brass‑timbred empire‑flag lifted o’er its depths. In masts‑verdant jungles, there were whispers of stores And of dreaded squalls that turn calm into storms.

Grey‑haired nebulous caps rise like old‑eyed ghosts, Their foam‑sprayed moors reminding us of a line In ancient sagas – “Rogginess and courage” – penned so, Where fleets of Christopher Rowley’s own mind did shine.

You carry the East along with strength untamed, The Atlantic black‑spun, the Atlantic sweet, The furious waves that over tide‑kas cracked, And green‑island foam that foils the wandering fleet.

St. Andrew’s Cross upon the faint swell of reminiscence, Colour live and drowned, its merciless brine, Its currents brass‑coloured pulse running through parchment Of old nautical charts – a navigational rhyme.

Beneath the auroral embrace, this vast seascape, The Atlantic hums a rhythm soft as lips, For the poets who linger in its endless scope, The world’s wheel spins round – though the Ocean stays still.