The birds are the horizon
When days dawn for the souls adrift on cobblestone currents
Between Charybdis’ shallow bus stop shoals
And Scylla’s high-rise concrete icebergs,
In narrow straits dredged out by hand for wardens
Who run the convicts back and forth.
Van Diemen’s Land to serve hard labor,
Then Botany Bay for tea and biscuits—
Bitter rum and weevilled hardtack pornography
To dull the pain and fill the cavities
Of chipped and flattened teeth that gnawed the ropes like rats
Until they freed the merchant ship from swamping in the static.
“You’ve done the job this evening
To see the vessel home to port for courage and honor!
For that’s the real meat on the plate, my lads,
And has it not been sauced with purpose?
You rest. Dine well upon the choicest bits I’ve salted;
I’ll settle for your butchered hands.
‘Tis true, perhaps the fresher cut,
But did I not request it medium rare?
You saw those casks to port for discerning palates
That cannot suffer beef well-done or dripping.
But not for this displeasure must the ration lighten;
No, it’s the extra coin lost on the lamp oil in the storm.”
Fear not Cetus or other ancient myths at sea Dear Sailor;
The Atlas waves of progress have thrust upward again
And ancient seafoam piles in shifting dunes.
Its memory’s a drop of Uranus’ blood
That spilt, and raised a new Polybotes
Who’ll not go quietly to Nisyros.
This anti-Promethean bears a sextant
For crews that sail beneath electron stars
That twinkle with gongs of cellphone alarms.
When old charts fail it’s on to morning
So sight them not: the Dawn Chorus will see you home:
The birds are the horizon.