In the dream (or perhaps it is forseeing) it is cold, The air carries whispers of ice That cut through the warmth of my skin Like knives, The quay isΒ deserted, Quiet aside from the occasional Breeze induced moan from A beer bottle tossed casually away To lie discarded and thereby A bit like me,
As I single up the mooring lines Of the boat below me its movement Becomes greater, As if shunning the cold stillness Of the land, And seeing this I feel kinship With the waking hull, And a sense of shared impending journey To the grey seas Beyond the harbour wall,
As I work the halyards and Aged sails creak up the mast The breeze becomes more evident In the brisk flapping of canvas, Rime frost on the gunwhales gives way To dark hand prints as I steady myself Moving forward and aft, Steadily prepping for departure In a routine well known Across decades,
Finally all is ready, The wind picks up, Sundering the clouds to reveal A clear black sky studded in diamonds, The navigation lights From far galaxies come to light my way As the backed foresail Pushes the bows away, Then with a creak the boom quells The flapping main,
Approaching the harbour mouth The wind rises further and a few Long lazy yet driven rollers Make their presence felt, The heel increases as the bow tastes freedom, Nav lights on the breakwater are Unnaturally bright but no one sees Nor waves goodbye, Nor ever will again for tonight I that was James just crossed the bar
This is a bit of a recurring theme. Hopefully someone somewhere will appreciate it