The Storm Poem by Phil Soar

He washed his hands of everything and sailed away to sea
Upon a yacht his father bought in Nineteen sixty three
No crew to help him navigate, a yachtsman on his own
No compass and no route to plan, so far away from home

The coastguard none to happy, as he rode the giant waves
The storm was born as he set sail, on a swell of watery graves
And tossed around so violently, he fought to beat the rage
Forgetting troubles back at home, out here on natures stage

The land now distant miles away, how tortuous the trip
No room for lost emotions, no time to make a slip
The dark grey sea enveloped him, his vessel taken too
And later when the storm subsides, his home a sea of blue