The sail billows in the current
Of waves instead of wind
Buffeted by the heat and cold feeling taut against the line.

The current drafts and pulls the jib to tangle around the bow
And return him floundering in the sea
He’s got to tack as soon as now

A buoy holds him up
Keel pointed to the sun
Drifting out at sea
Without a point to set his run.

The anchor tips him down
Weighing too much to hold fast
But air inside the berth
Keeps the whole craft within his grasp.

It takes strength to right the ship
Never easy to know when
Faith can make the lift
Or how to pull it yet again

Destroyed he cannot be
No holes within his hull
For how then could he float
Unless his heart were full.

So capsized boats can drift
As long as they must
But he will sail again
This dawn or maybe dusk.

150 150 Stafford Wood
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