You ask Am I lonely?
Not so.
But my waterlogged oars and my arms long for landfall,
for an old oak with a swing in its wing
rooted in rock and years,
for the sleeping quiet of snow-laden pines
anchored, tethered, still.

I accepted my charge with grace and resolve:
Uniting these distant shores.
I commandeered fleets, armadas even
of ships biscuits, canons and men
I made the journey again and again -
I travelled the earth for what it's worth
and repaid their investments a hundredfold
exchanging trinkets for gold.
But now I am almost old
and still I've not done as told
For a good anthropologist always goes native
The landmasses slip and slide
Setting foot on one shore makes the other recede,
widening the divide

So if I'm lonely it's only for want of a winch
explosives, groundwork,
iron

If I'm lost it's just the absence of feathers,
a flight of ideas, an arrow, a bow
a quill and the will
to use it​

If I'm surly it's purely for want of a fire
crackling with promise, a raging pyre
on which to cast
wet wood.