Cast adrift, I float.

My boat a simple coracle:

Bent withies, rawhide shell,

No sail, no paddles.

Calm as a village pond

The sea holds me

Cupped in watery hands

I could step ashore,

Wet no more than knees,

Feel feet on shingle

And a heavy failure.

The current catches-

I whirl like lily leaf let loose.

Dizzied, I sit down,

Hug my knees and wait:

The farthest shore is near.


I wrote this poem with both my own “all at sea” feelings, and the voyages of some early Celtic saints in mind, who set sail in tiny boats without sail or paddle and let God take them where He willed. Not that I am a saint or anything!


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.