Becalmed far from shore
limp sails flapping in the
deceitful light airs I seek
the omnipotent Wind
I whistle a tuneless aire
to stir the air and bribe the
Wind to my will but the Wind
takes no notice of my tune.
I promise oblations of gold
purest nard and seeing wax
A home for the Wind filled
with such: The Wind is not bought.
Stymied I ship the sculling oar
in it transom lock. Working it
back and forth, twisting it as i
do, my craft moves forward.
Shoreward or seaward: Which
way should I steer? Shoreward:
safe harbour, rocks. Seaward:
vast emptiness, room to sail.
A puff of Wind points the
bow seaward, so seaward I steer
chasing the vagrant breezes
I box the compass in vain.
I drop the scull and curse
the Windm the Sea and the Sky
but they will not be bullied --
I only waste my breath.
I take up the scull and start
to move the boat forward
out into the empty uncaring
sea. setting my courses for
where I am bound. With an eye
on the compass and one the
the horizon I keep on sculling --
steadily doggedly swinging the oar.
A day and a night and a
night and a day I drive my
craft forwards, forgetful of
the Wind this slow voyage..
After three days, dehydrated,
exhausted, spent beyond hope,
I awake to the Wind:
Salvation by faith and a sculling oar
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