The Ship

Billows of fabric gulp Odyssian breezes in the
Sails’ unfurling gasp – thrusting taught;
The pregnant air nourishing like the
Womb, and a motherly hand – buoyant;
Fingers soft-entwining ours like the
Petalled water-vines of countries oriental.

We’re an island bound,
An isle full of noises sweet murmuring on horizons,
And should we get lost in the journey’s froth –
Choking in currents, flailing in tides –
We need but to sail where the sands breath
Alive:
Trillion caramel-set diamonds crunching
Under our toes and seafaring heels;
Equilibriums levelling to the steadiness
Of Utopian sands.

And while limitless imaginings torch our way
We’ll lie flat on our backs on the
Sea-softened oak, staring beyond infinity,
As the ship follows onwards the
Constellations’ course.