I am scared I take
my hands off
the tiller
and my ship drifts
off-line, off-course,
nearing rocks and ruin
and the seagulls' calls -
all alarm and warning -
I don't heed
as the ropes straining
at their knots
can't prevent the yardarm
turning back

the sirens' song is loud
as I veer, tack into wind,
and hope that those black
teeth give me a wide
berth, that the elemental
air will push me past
that treasure chest of cold and fear
of diamonds glinting deep -
bright eyes in seaweed
clinging - that a warm wind
will push me past
those rocks to sea
fresh and smooth and clean
that the bay, wide in sheltering,
will hold a haven of quiet
greening in the sun.
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem