He presented the model ship,
sitting it carefully on a footstool,
and we toured the deck together
towards pen-barrel pipes,
past toothpick benches
and matchstick fences.

Larger than life, yet
held in two warm hands.

I traced the brushstrokes of
the oak-brown gloss across
the hull with gentle fingertips, mirroring
every hour of effort, every hour
of time.
My finger lingered over a
patched imperfection.

I saw every grand story play
out before me, a hundred times
smaller, condensed against time.
Hands mimicked the motions of
an ocean, rocking in time
with his melodic memories
as his voice reeled tales
of the youth that
still glimmered
in his dusted eyes

Surrounded in the comfort
of the rippling blue carpet
practiced hands map out the
scenery - a scene I see clearly -
the lighthouse
the navigating star.

On the shrunken hull, behind the
asterix helm, I see a miniscule man
- eyes a pure portion of the
ocean - gazing out at the
watercolour horizon, eyes on
the indication of any
destination lying beyond.