Ships that pass in the night
Out in the fog, then horns often sound. Hull scarred and barnacled by battles, and the ravages of time, the old warrior keeps a steady pace. Not knowing which way to go, but instead searching for something. The pains of an old life left behind. Nothing ahead but hope, and the unknown.
Silhouettes hang in the night. Hazed outlines of others travelling similar paths as the battered old cruiser. Their running lights distorted by the fog that surrounds them, still bright and shining against the black. They bob like souls in the gloom, reminding us that they exist, just out of reach.
They ghost out of the haze and come close every now and then. Sheltering for a short while under the vigilant eyes of the old warrior. The guns of the cruiser have long been silent. Unused, they still give comfort to the travellers on the path. Few know where they are going, or what they are searching for, but take comfort from doing so in good company.
Shoals of clippers come to gambol amongst the bow waves. Stately cruisers and liners arrive to commune and share wisdom, sometimes with their own floatillas in tow. Sharp nosed destroyers march alongside, proud and firey, and pleasure yachts dance gracefully in the wake, their spinnakers unfurled and filled with moonbeams. Each of them showing the pains of the journey, but still beautiful and special in their own way.
They communicate, or try to. Stab lights spilling out morse code, semaphores gyrating mightily to make themselves understood. Tack and course change trying to communicate that which the other methods fail to achieve. Light says one thing, mouthpiece says another, and hull language says a third. But somewhere in the jumble, the truth waits to be recognised.
The struggle to understand continues, just as the journey continues. That truth often slips away unseen, as the ships peel off, finding other paths they wish to travel. Gliding away, alone or in groups, leaving behind those that have either already travelled them, or have no wish to follow. They part ways, and soon there is nought remaining but the memory of their lights, and the reminder of the emptiness in the space they used to fill.
Some return in time, but most often don't. It is the sadest part of the journey. Their paths cross too briefly, and then the night swallows them up again. Enriched by their presence, but missing their council, the journey moves ever on. Hope continues to sustain the search, and the cruiser keeps on moving, passing the other ships in the night.
Silhouettes hang in the night. Hazed outlines of others travelling similar paths as the battered old cruiser. Their running lights distorted by the fog that surrounds them, still bright and shining against the black. They bob like souls in the gloom, reminding us that they exist, just out of reach.
They ghost out of the haze and come close every now and then. Sheltering for a short while under the vigilant eyes of the old warrior. The guns of the cruiser have long been silent. Unused, they still give comfort to the travellers on the path. Few know where they are going, or what they are searching for, but take comfort from doing so in good company.
Shoals of clippers come to gambol amongst the bow waves. Stately cruisers and liners arrive to commune and share wisdom, sometimes with their own floatillas in tow. Sharp nosed destroyers march alongside, proud and firey, and pleasure yachts dance gracefully in the wake, their spinnakers unfurled and filled with moonbeams. Each of them showing the pains of the journey, but still beautiful and special in their own way.
They communicate, or try to. Stab lights spilling out morse code, semaphores gyrating mightily to make themselves understood. Tack and course change trying to communicate that which the other methods fail to achieve. Light says one thing, mouthpiece says another, and hull language says a third. But somewhere in the jumble, the truth waits to be recognised.
The struggle to understand continues, just as the journey continues. That truth often slips away unseen, as the ships peel off, finding other paths they wish to travel. Gliding away, alone or in groups, leaving behind those that have either already travelled them, or have no wish to follow. They part ways, and soon there is nought remaining but the memory of their lights, and the reminder of the emptiness in the space they used to fill.
Some return in time, but most often don't. It is the sadest part of the journey. Their paths cross too briefly, and then the night swallows them up again. Enriched by their presence, but missing their council, the journey moves ever on. Hope continues to sustain the search, and the cruiser keeps on moving, passing the other ships in the night.