 |
|
 he crisp wind snaps at the sails, pontoons cutting
quickly though the swelling surf moan a whining sound,
as I lean far off the side, my weight seems
insignificant,
against the mighty motion of the wind and water,
but I hold the line to control the mainsail,
so I can right my tilting windmill,
before she dips below the waves.
The gib locked, it's line held in ready,
keeps her yaw and on an even keel,
should the breeze change direction,
I move the tiller, urgently watching the sail for any
telltale flapping,
I never travel in straight lines,
Sailing discourages that,
Distances count only in races, I'm not racing today.
The spray of salt, and the sun baking on my spine,
a magical aquamarine bathing, again and again,
cleansingly,
disinfecting when the wind fills my sails,
my lungs fill with hope,
cleansweep,
nothing, no nothing it feels, can catch up with me ....
|
|
|
