The man of the sea

A cold gray sky over a restless green sea brings the memory long forgotten. Forgotten? Na not forgotten but buried. Buried under years lived.

"A gift from th' gods these days o' mine."

The man whispers to himself with a furrowed brow. The damp cold wind dances across his wrinkled ruddy face and the sea. The sea dim in his ears now as he listens to a voice from days before. Before scars of the struggle to live had marked these rough hands and the light from the sun grew dim in his eyes.

"ye 're but a man Silas. A man with the twilight of ye
years on the horizon. Have ye forgotten the Ammaring? The
Ammaring that show'd ye the way?"

The familiar yet strange voice of the past inquires.

"Na, I h've not sir."

The old man answers the voice under his breath. Looking
up into the sky to see but a glimps of the white cloud. The
Ammaring.

"Na, I h've not, but I fear it has me sir. Ne'r a day has fall'n that it hasn't dark'ned me thoughts."

At that the old man sat on a drift log and waited for a sign. He stared at the sea looking for the shadow, a sign of the cloud. The Ammaring."

The old man waited an hour maybe and said to himself.

"Thy hours ar' few Silas. Has 'e forgott'n his promise to me now?
I pray thee Ammaring don't leave me to the sea and its cold
hands."