{"sf1_id":1719955,"sf2_id":"RnoaqYeX","title":"Ghost of the Western Cretaceous Sea","author":"Rob MacWolf","words":364,"posted_at":"2021-05-20T00:47:00.000Z","tags":["Iambic pentameter","Poetry","Terza Rime"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1719955-ghost-of-the-western-cretaceous-sea","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/RnoaqYeX","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/e2/9c/e29ce574-ac8f-490b-9aa8-6aae2b79e187","description":"#38 of poetry\n\nI found this tucked in a notebook. I don't remember it, but I do remember writing it.\nThe Western Cretaceous Sea, also called the Western Interior Seaway, Niobraran Sea, or North American Inland Sea, was a sea that covered what's now the American great plains during the late cretaceous period.","content":"You look around you and you see the peaks.\n\nYou see the pine heights and the softer trees\n\nThat flower on the lower, lesser steeps.\n\n  \n\nYou see the little rivers, shire-wise,\n\nThat gently carve the foothills. And the sweep\n\nAt last of desert floor. From there the rise\n\n  \n\nOf yet another summersnow clad wall\n\nOf mountains. And it quite escapes your eyes\n\nThat here there is an ocean. Indeed all\n\n  \n\nThe world is a coastline. That dim tide\n\nLaps at our feet with each day's rise and fall.\n\nDo not pretend you feel it not inside.\n\n  \n\nFew eyes have seen that softly sighing swell.\n\nFewer its scent remember and abide.\n\nYet though we parch in dryness as of hell\n\n  \n\nThat blessed coolness waits inches away\n\nIf only we could taste it. Yet the spell\n\nCan still be broken. In the evening's grey\n\n  \n\nWhen set is sun but light is not yet gone,\n\nIn rain curtains that wash these walls of clay,\n\nAnd in the swelling ever-saddening song\n\n  \n\nThe wind plays on the twisting trees of green,\n\nThere, there I've seen the sea. There is that long,\n\nSmooth, bone-white strand. Mine eyes have seen\n\n  \n\nThe face of sweet salt water, and I live.\n\nIts memory colors every joy I glean.\n\nLife holds me from it. This I can't forgive.\n\n  \n\nNay, sight is not enough. One day shall I\n\nBetween my bare toes as if through a sieve\n\nThose slow waves pour. Salt breeze will\u0026nbsp;smart my eye.\n\n  \n\nThe foam's cool touch my sorrows will efface,\n\nAnd I will understand the white gull's cry.\n\nAnd maybe I will meet you in that place,\n\n  \n\nWhichever one of us comes there before.\n\nAnd there we may speak clearly, face to face.\n\nAnd then may we be thirsty nevermore.\n\n  \n\nBut if you turn back then, while I remain\n\nTo take ship from that ever-present shore,\n\nKnow you will live your life longing in vain\n\n  \n\nTo see, to hear, to feel that peaceful sea.\n\nAs I did. As I do. Oh, it is pain\n\nI would not trade for any ecstacy.\n\n\u0026nbsp; \u0026nbsp; \u0026nbsp;Until some blessed evening sets me free\n\n\u0026nbsp; \u0026nbsp; \u0026nbsp;I shall be here, longing to see the sea.\n\n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"poetry","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1714172-accompanied-by-tornado-siren.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1724812-dear-concerned-estranged.json"}}