Moored not far from the abode
The ship would depart for england that afternoon
Something they were convinced was important
Raising flags and giving speeches
Would I be on that ship
Or left back here at port
loitering around beachfront shops
purposeless and lost
No I'd be stuck in the bungalow
writing words forming roots
That traveled like the ship
Underground mycorrhiza for my creativity
The smell of salt and confusion
The pen runs dry of ink
The islands and inlets that inspired me
remain unmentioned
pieces of the land and people I wanted to grace
In an empty state stuck on this thin chunk of coast
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