The Bell On The Buoy Poem by Sonny Rainshine

He dreamed that night of separation and mortality:

Land ho! there the continent rises from the sand and spume,
dead ahead, but it recedes, not approaches.
Veiled with vapor, sandpipers and terns speckle the beach,
calling, cawing, watching.
The ghost of John Donne, somber sailor-saint of souls,
treads the surf prophesying of islands and bells.
'I'm severed now from terra firma,
adrift, unmoored, anchorless,
and the bell on the buoy
is tolling for me.'

He awoke, shaken,
moist with mist-no, sweat.