A Far More Brutal Reality

Down in the harbour is a small boat
piloting its way across ocean paths.
Dim and distant paths – but paths nonetheless –
across the tide.

A small boat cresting the wave,
a small boat riding the wake.
Sitting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Whiling away.

A brown sail on smooth and polished water;
it takes many hands to steer the craft on its path.

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Posted on January 26, 2014, in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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