The Song of the Waves

Bailey Collins, Guest Writer

Sun is shining,

 orange and white,

 a kaleidoscope,

 viewed in the flash of a second

 inside a tube of shimmering molten glass.

The wave is like a glittering chain,

 its fat, gleaming links tumbling in a spiral dance,

 robed in the silver light,

 of setting sun on joyful water.

The sun is like a coin of red gold,

 stroking the wave with warm, sparkling fingers,

 enticing it forward.

Roiling blue dragons stream from its back

 and romp in its wake.

 Wide-eyed white horses gallop in front,

 leading it on,

 on to its deathbed.

Ferny green blankets are draped upon

 the tawny gold coffin,

 red in the eyes of the sun,

chipped, creamy gems lie in dull piles,

heaped ‘round the feet of the stooped mourners,

whose arms droop to their waists.

The horses plunge into their bed.

The dragons burst into stars that

twinkle and trace the scales on their backs,

as the last of their roars die away.

More horses, new waves,

 canter across the molten aqua glass,

 the ocean shines on,

 sings on,

 under the crimson glare

 of the sinking crimson sun.