To All the Ships at Sea - Nov 20 2023

 

To All the Ships at Sea

Nov 20 2023

To think what I could have been.

Shepherd.

Lighthouse keeper.

Horse whisperer.

Nothing that changes the world.

My lot in life,

measured

by watching

    . . . waiting

        . . . taking care.

Not seen, and being seen.

Not moving and shaking.

Not making time.

Although the slow life

in a pastoral setting somewhere far away

is likely more idealized

than real,

the wishful thinking

of city people

who hate their jobs.

Because horses kick, butt, bite.

The light needs constant tending.

And we all know that rams

charged with testosterone

aren't at all the fluffy lambs

of fairy tales.

Then a greenskeeper, perhaps.

Kneeling down

in the morning dew

before the heat of the day,

eyeing the grass

and sniffing the soil,

scanning the sky for rain.

But now, all I can do is dim the lights

turn off the phone

and latch the office door.

Imagine lambs, gambolling

on a gentle green slope.

And a man

with a tall wooden stuff

trudging up behind.

Imagine a jet black horse

with fire in its eyes,

nostrils flaring

sweat glistening

tensing-up to bolt.

But instead, as I slowly reach out

consents to my touch;

dropping its head,

and ever so slightly

easing up.

Or imagine a far-off island

of exposed rock

and stunted trees.

And me

tending the garden

I've made for myself

on its only patch of soil.

Where the wind never lets up,

and a restless sea

breaks against the shore.

Where restive gulls

circle low,

squawking loudly

as if to protest

my very presence there.

And where a fog horn wails

its mournful sound

to all the ships at sea.