Little Boat

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A Poem dedicated to my dear friend Andreas; inspired by the little boat he gave me as a present.

Where are we going tonight, little boat? Will you take me to the sea?

I’ll leave my footprints on the sandy dunes, and sit a time to wonder where the stars sleep, and why animals do not talk in human tongue.

We could pick fruit in deepest winter. Perhaps the snow-king  will give us ice-apples which are hard to bite but filled with juices which propagate fire in the soul.

Little boat, we could sail to worlds where men may tread unashamed with other men; we could go where quills take the place of trees, and leaves fall like gold in likes of silver.

In these, our secret spaces, mountains take only a jump to scale, and knots are undone with wishes, and clouds form shapes and chase each other across the purple sky.

If you tire Little Boat, we’ll rest a while in lands where the moon sings sweet electronic lullabies; her songs cause the monsters to flee, so we will be safe;

I hate the monsters too Little Boat, when they pretend not to be fiends, but lure us with beautiful images of things that could be. I’ve got a sword; age has blunted it, but we can fight the monsters.

Little Boat, if you don’t know where to take us, sleep. The helm is a magic wheel enchanted by the dark sea in which we sail through these cold nights; we’ve no need to steer it now.

Rest, Little Boat; when we reach land, I’ll wake you.


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