SAILBOAT
I'm sailing, sailing home
to a time and place long ago.
It was on a sailboat
we, the three of us, built.
Father carved the beechwood hull.
Mother trimmed and starched the cotton sail.
I finished it with glue and lacquer.
It was a lovely rig,
all the more so when afloat,
this little boat,
this scouting project
that won an award for its fine craftsmanship.
It could weather slashing waves.
Beat back any foe.
Sit peacefully harboured,
safe from harm.
Alas, it is no more,
this sailboat.
Nor is father, nor mother;
all are gone.
Only I remain.
Only I remember
this seemingly make-believe world,
this nearly forgotten time.
But wait.
What's that I see on the horizon?
Is it a sail?
Is it a mirage?
I think not.
Perchance it is the captain,
come to take me home.
Where father waits, mother too.
Yes, I am sailing home.
I am sailing home.
© Breyel, Timm. "Sailboat". All rights reserved.
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