Ravens

At night, the sight of land commands

the dreams of any sailor, and

horizons are watched by day

through veils of spindrift. 

We will send up ravens

to follow their flight; 

always drawn to safer ground. 

Yet the ocean is holy water

to a mariner when slippery hope

is the only prayer of his net.

A south wind may shepherd 

a storm to scupper boats -

to teach a wave's lesson in fate

under trough and crest of grief.

Here, courage is deliverance - 

though a hollow sea will anoint

in brine, still we hold to tillers

against the threat of the depths

that we might sink to, slow

and heavy in the bloom

of a burgeoning midnight.

And here, we would discover

the surprise of warmth in cold,

a glow that begins to illuminate 

the darkness: the comfort

of the false clarity of drowning. 

There are lost gods to be found

in descent, whose wisdom is no more 

than another conspiracy that eels

and worms away in revelations.

Unprotected, we will pledge

ourselves to the weather,

as marauding as any faith, and

only the sea knows the measure

of its torments, so I know

we must endure, send up

the black birds - the deep

takes no pleasure in men,

it has its own priests. 

A little corny, but written for someone who gave me wise advice based on a sailing analogy. 

Image is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Die_Gartenlaube_(1899)_b_0100_a_3.jpg

Also on Twitter - an image of a Viking boat sending up the ravens to sight land or return to the boat. 
https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Flokko_sending_out_ravens.jpg