Why We Make Maps
Just under the sea’s surface,
invisible to the naked eye they lie,
wreckers of ships and dreams,
hidden shoals of stone and sand,
not malevolent despite the storytellers’ tales,
simple nature, submerged by weak tides,
unseen until struck, until
they rip through the hardened beams
of a ship well built, but unsuspecting.
And so, maps, a record of every ship lost and damaged,
a warning of places, not to avoid,
but danced around until the tide changes
and the pointy stones show themselves to the sun.
About this poem.
A poem about the sea. A poem about relationships.