Bruce McClain
His Phantom Queen

The bow rests deep into the sands
of the shoreline, a relic given up
by the ocean’s blue design.
The eternal soak and recede.

The old seadog jaunts to the beach,
to spend time with his muse. Quietly
he sits and listens to familiar voices,
his mind like a lantern illuminates his past.

Echos of split timber and ripped sails—
the shipwreck of memories. Their weight
tires him. Once he fought giant waves and fish.

His boat now subdued in waves of sand, water
dissolves what remains—his ruptured muse,
he whispers a hymn to his phantom queen.