a wooden boat
with wooden oars,
moored to a deserted dock
with weathered rope,
awaits for me.
in the early morning fog,
she waits in ghostly stillness,
as if an apparition that had arrived
on moonlit winds that blew silently in the night.
in the half-light of the day's drowsy dusk,
she waits in patient steadiness,
as if she were a faithful sailor keeping watch,
two bells, four bells, six bells
eight bells and all is well.
in the heated summer, when the sun bleaches grey her wood,
she waits for me with her relentless stare,
as if a patient vulture,
marking time until comes the end
for her parched and dying prey
waiting, always waiting, as she sits upon her desert sea.
in the frozen hell of winter, when the ice bites into her soul,
she waits for me in the endless time, the lifeless time,
the time when wolves hunt in desperation
for weakened souls, near lifeless souls,
waiting to know their end of time.
this little wooden boat,
this seemingly abandoned little boat,
waits for me,
the tide, it flows,
the tide, it ebbs,
and yet she knows,
deep within she knows,
that we will one day make that voyage
to that place that waits beyond the bend,
to the place that waits for me.