Riddonkulous

I marched once tall in inland soil, then felt the ocean’s call, Now I keep time with creaking ropes and hear the bosun’s bawl. No mast nor sail do I command, yet still I ride the brine, Passed from storm to storm like verse between the beats of time. I wash ashore to end the song where foamy choruses stood. What am I, sung by wind and wave, the sailor’s silent wood?