The Drifters
A sage and pupil journeyed on
Into a darkened valley-glade.
Its air was laden with the scent
Of unctuous and bitter saps.
They carried on for many nights
Beneath the forest canopies.
But no light seemed to guide their way—
No light but that of starlit streams.
The travelers listened to a choir
Of cicadas singing their song.
The summer breezes drifted through
The fog-enveloped maze of oaks.
“Some walk the night,” observed the sage,
“But no clear path reveals itself.
“They wander never knowing that
They lost the road so long ago.”
The sage went on, “Then there are those
Who journey through the denser woods.
“They fear they might be found”—he stopped
And peered into the starlit stream.
The Sea
Restless, I awaken,
As the city stirs,
Street lights flicker like stars,
And the sea whispers.
Languid ocean vessels
Reach the quiet shores
Of exotic islands
And the sea whispers.
Like a sailor’s prayers
Or an ancient dirge,
Which the graying waves hum
As the sea-storms surge.
Through the darkling grottoes
And cavern waters
Lay the countless demesnes
Where the sea whispers.
Like some magic seashell
On an antique shore,
Echoing so softly
Its forgotten lore.
Over golden beaches,
Glistening ocean pearls,
And ships long forgotten,
Her dark current whirls.
Like a forlorn Naiad
Who weeps and shivers
In her hallowed grottoes
And sacred rivers—
Hoping for love’s tidings,
Her quiet vespers,
Over briny torrents,
She softly whispers.
Like a majestic swan
With its broken wings
Whose delicate soul flies
As the night tide sings.
So my dreaming spirit
Soundlessly slumbers
As the clouds veil the moon
And the sea whispers.
David B. Gosselin is a poet, translator, writer, and researcher based in Montreal. He is the founder of The Chained Muse and writes on Substack at Age of Muses.
Sparks of Calliope 