Turner's trough

The tumult’s rush headlong into swell tilts the boat
abaft the beam. Vast miles from where the wave-making

wind-fetch begins, bow-end first, we ride the ridges

of black eclipsing the long arc of horizon.

The sea heaves crested pyramids to the windward shore.

Our boat heels over in Turner’s nightmare trough of sea;

Its roll loses us any sense of the vertical.

A sharp water-peak shoots up where two wave-crests cross.

Pitched from the crests of passing pyramidal waves,

we seem to seek submersion below our Plimsoll Line.

But we rise showing the blue staysail triangle,

and wait for a square of sun to scorch us yellow.

The billows burst, the curl of cusps break, the light shines

 in bright beams through the white frothy spindrift and spume.

In the shelving shallow leeward shore ships are at anchor.

Closed-up waves fall, break, and lather sand in sudsy surf.

A red buoy holds the sea, ships and scudding sky together.