Sailing away to Sugar Hill Island,
sitting in my cabin, watching the horizon
rise and fall with the waves;
it looks like a postcard through the windows
and circles of the portholes.
I held back too many unspoken words
from the weeping beauty standing there
on the dock as I left. Words. Useless!
Our time together stolen too soon.
What could I say to her to ease the pain
when I have nothing inside to feel
but a solid block of icy granite?
This trip - it shows the value
of determination to go beyond human
contact and the futility of expectations.
She expected that we'd be together
happily-ever-after nonsense;
I expected that we'd move on eventually
so here I am, doing just that.
I ascend to sit by the tiller,
take it from the stay rope
and feel the boat's urge
to turn with the current.
Steady hand, bow into the curls,
head out and away for good.
Turning around I can just see
the tips of Pic du Paradis -
Paradise Peak, disappearing,
soon lost over the horizon.
What might have been?
Thoughts arise of their own accord
of futures passed up and a lonely, aged
man sailing alone on empty seas.
Suddenly a flying fish skips
onto the deck and flops in front of me.
Wetting my hand I pick it up and marvel
at it's colors reflecting in the sunlight,
hues changing as it wiggles to be free.
I toss it back, but something happens in me
that is difficult to describe: like a rock
melting in gentle warmth.
Look ahead at the endless waves;
then firmly pull the tiller to put about,
return to the only thing in my life
that felt right and good; even enough
to rethink what freedom really means.
