A message without a bottle

If I listen closely,

I can hear it.

Hear it in the swell,

in the foam,

in the salty droplets that land on my face,

even in the cries of the gulls

beating their white wings overhead.

The strong steady thrum

of distant lands

calling

calling

calling

rippling forever through the depths

like a record on repeat,

going around and around and around

until someone finally hears it

and lifts off the needle.

‘Message received,’

I whisper.