BORA

We rode the Bora’s frozen breath
With blue fingers we grasp
The bowlines for the weather leech
A spanker snapped and begin to thrash
We laid low by the mainsul mast
While the maiden, she climbed the swell
Followed the curl and broke away at last
Free sailing as she’s compelled
The Bora tames to a mistral
The maiden finally sees the sun
The swarthy sea turns azure blue
And rocks gently now the maiden’s run

©Copyright September 2, 2010 by Terry D. Sutherland