Have you ever felt the brisk on you face,
The sun burning your skin,
The specks of sea-salt in your hair.
And its taste on your lips; off the Grand Large, the offing is bleeding,
It says it low, can't you hear it?
_I'm calling you.
At a distance, a boat, Had blown her toot.
Sailing is in the air.
The ocean crushing at your feet,
His ebb and flow, Has skimmed his batter in begging you. _
Can't you see it! What's the matter with you?
What are you waiting for_
If that was given to me, to love again,
I would've been a skipper, Then that, I want no more,
I won't refrain.
_”So throw off the bowlines, and Sail away from the safe harbor.” _Mark Twain”
That's what is all about: A Cap Jib: in the brisk," Avoir le vent-en- poupe", in French _a jib set on a stay to a bowsprit cap, astern._Dictionaries
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Thank you for publishing my post, and poem, it’s the second or third I think, I’m a fervent follower of yours also
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