I return to the sea in this strange place of sorrow,
where final footfalls touched the good earth before that ill fated voyage.
I sit on Holy Ground.
It's the name of the stone rock beach,
and appropriate I think to honor God's precious creation by such a name.
The local sea water glitters in broken sunlight,
claiming no knowledge of the disaster that took lives from this fair Irish port of Cobh.
It laps gently on the shoreline neighboring jagged stones,
yet to be washed smooth,
and brushed seaweed neat from the outgoing tide.
Jellyfish who missed their moment rue their lot,
now the sun has won against the casting shadow clouds.
The wild freedom of dancing water missed,
splashed against grey stones,
purple round veins signaturing their soon to be lifeless forms.
They must have been travelling as a tight knit group,
for even now they still lie close together,
unable to reach each other over the hard mottled grey.
The fresh water cousin of an iceberg is long gone,
the sea whispers to itself on this sunny afternoon,
knowing full well the crowds flock to this remembrance place.
The intransigent iceberg was a proud force of nature,
and would not give way to the darling attempt of humanity
to be invincible on the sea.
Countless hours of workmanship were appreciated for just four days,
before sinking to the forever darkness below.
I consider the workers, craftsmen, those who built and beautified the ship,
hearing the news with devastation.
The loss of human life,
and all that they had lovingly accomplished.
The pride of man broken,
as it is so often in this life's twists and turns,
that brings unexpected sorrow and so much grief.
I wonder why this disaster has such a hold on our imagination,
when so many other diverse tragedies unfold.
Maybe one reason is that those who stepped from this shore,
near where I now sit,
were full of hope of a new and vibrant life.
It was cut so quickly short,
and ended in the cruelest despair on that clear and cold April night,
as the great Titanic sank from view.