Coracle for one,
well-laced, tied down,
thongs strong,
oars carved and smooth -
pale golden staves dripping with
dark water.

Journey gone wrong -
I am bobbing and left behind
in the stream of my own life,
water slaps the side insistently,
I look over ...
face in the water's dark mirror
unforgiving, bitter,
a sea of tears.

And in the distance out
across leagues of dark and heavy, noisy waves
the black clouds part uneasily ...
a glimpse of gold and green:
mirage of peace with trees
palms waving glossy hands from
a shaded shore.

A man stands there:
tiny figure
tiny hand above his eyes
to halt the sun ...
he sees my coracle for one,
well-laced, tied down, tossing here
these dark, seething leagues.

His tiny form moves to the edge
pushes a careful craft
out to prow and navigate,
to bite the seas
and come to me in peril
in my coracle.
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem