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.