untitled poem by Bob MacKenzie If not an island, perhaps a ship, and the currents grown so fast and high that would-be ports are scarcely sighted and ships, once seen, shall pass as a sigh - a breath of human ships in the wind, each one unto himself a reason: peerless, selfless, sailing a lone sea - tossing, each coracle in season, separately and relentlessly, against the walls of waves arising, as Maginot to the isthmus bridge sent to save sailors from capsizing. And this bridge, if it is ever done, can it reach each seaswept coracle like a mystical landbound haven for sailors caught in the spectacle? published: The Parallax Measure, Volume LV, Number 12, December 2, 1982 |