The Mending

It is slow work, the mending of sails,
your calloused fingers drawing thick thread
through the scarred canvas.

Years of it, more an act of faith than purpose,
built on a belief that you are made for more
than being held captive to the shore.

The villagers are accustomed to you now,
of your constant work and dreamer’s talk
of new lands and strange worlds,

a madman with scars and strange stories,
the stuff of children, fairy tales and ballads,
good company, but not to be trusted with real life.

But you know this: Your sails are nearly mended,
and soon, they will hang from the spars,
ready at last to catch the wind that has been your muse.

It matters less where you are going,
than where you go. Not to leave here,
for this place has been a pleasant way station,

but to seek whatever it is
that cannot be found
by staying still.

The wind shifts as you sew the last corner.
You can smell the sea air. You look at the ropes
that have bound your craft safely for so long

ready for the journey,
no matter where it leads.

About this poem

There are lots of choices. Most of them are good. Chose one and set sail. There is an adventure out there.

Tom