The Voice

My vessel heaved and strained: dipped, then ploughed
through icy walls of grey; whose white-whipped spume
thrashed at the wheelhouse glass. A living shroud,
with face of a vindictive snarling fiend.

Then-- clear: as though it were inside my head;
a voice rose from the prow. It spoke my name:
And for a moment, time stood still-- and shared
its feeling of tranquillity and calm.

The storm clad seas continued all next day.
Until a message on the radio
informed me: Father has just passed away
speaking your name.. We thought you ought to know.

A precognition at the very least
to render all my thinking obsolete.