The Wanderer (Poetry)
02nd December 2012
I have been at sea some time — an unrecorded age —
much of my life’s spent airborne looking down
on waves — the sea’s raw chaos — its ever-changing patterns
as I glide on thermals — span immeasurable miles
day after fold-out day
with the sun my sometime-compass nodding through the clouds
and the brine-sharp wind behind me
I weave the elements with ease — for I was born to this
unfettered lone existence — always moving and entirely comfortable
within this aching curve of space.
They call me wanderer — as though my route is random and
unplanned
but I know my way around — I am a veteran of winter storms
and countless silk-smooth summers stretching their turquoise
ocean-wide
I am a master of the unmapped leys — the sparkling nets
that guide my far projections.
I am a bird of omen — how the superstitious sailors point and stare —
some old-timers even cross themselves and spit for luck
where they see my shadow fall — a stain upon a fresh-scrubbed deck
and mutter as I wheel away taking their curses with me —
beating black into the blue.
And I have known the sea’s most bitter fury — witnessed
and survived when men have not. I’ve watched
their proud sails die — that final flap as canvas offers up
its soul to godless deeps
and water claims them — sucks on wood and bone.
I could croon a borrowed shanty or a fished-up lullaby
of voyaging to the limits of the world
where a wall of sea-fog suffocates and swallows whole
the traveller on business all his own —
my chorus susurrates — repeats — repeats — its disembodied liturgy.
It is a history of nothing — hollow words telling of a journey that
cannot be described — I have no points of reference for
the seascape’s utterly devoid of any interest —
league follows league within the unsure bounds of wild obscurity.
And so I watch my shadow swim — the thin sun-given proof
I’m more than a figment lingering too long — lost
in some vast imagination — while my nature drives me on with no
regrets
towards whatever goal... I go
sleek-feathered to extinction.
much of my life’s spent airborne looking down
on waves — the sea’s raw chaos — its ever-changing patterns
as I glide on thermals — span immeasurable miles
day after fold-out day
with the sun my sometime-compass nodding through the clouds
and the brine-sharp wind behind me
I weave the elements with ease — for I was born to this
unfettered lone existence — always moving and entirely comfortable
within this aching curve of space.
They call me wanderer — as though my route is random and
unplanned
but I know my way around — I am a veteran of winter storms
and countless silk-smooth summers stretching their turquoise
ocean-wide
I am a master of the unmapped leys — the sparkling nets
that guide my far projections.
I am a bird of omen — how the superstitious sailors point and stare —
some old-timers even cross themselves and spit for luck
where they see my shadow fall — a stain upon a fresh-scrubbed deck
and mutter as I wheel away taking their curses with me —
beating black into the blue.
And I have known the sea’s most bitter fury — witnessed
and survived when men have not. I’ve watched
their proud sails die — that final flap as canvas offers up
its soul to godless deeps
and water claims them — sucks on wood and bone.
I could croon a borrowed shanty or a fished-up lullaby
of voyaging to the limits of the world
where a wall of sea-fog suffocates and swallows whole
the traveller on business all his own —
my chorus susurrates — repeats — repeats — its disembodied liturgy.
It is a history of nothing — hollow words telling of a journey that
cannot be described — I have no points of reference for
the seascape’s utterly devoid of any interest —
league follows league within the unsure bounds of wild obscurity.
And so I watch my shadow swim — the thin sun-given proof
I’m more than a figment lingering too long — lost
in some vast imagination — while my nature drives me on with no
regrets
towards whatever goal... I go
sleek-feathered to extinction.