October 13, 2007
By Chris Page, Hadfield, ZZ

The storm was coming.
The wind sang of it, prattling in these sails,
The sea spoke of it, growing from a mumble to a shout to a roar,
The birds knew of it, and fled, taking with them certainty.

I chose to weather it out.

Anchored myself good and deep,
Buried myself in fantasy and reverie sleep,
Pondered and prepared, made the chain stand,
Then battened down the hatches and extended my hand.

The storm tore me away.

The chain gave way, and this ship floated free
With the sails weeping their protests to the sea,
And the anchor chain, so sturdy and self assured,
Flapping impotently in the swell and fell overboard.


They say, at the end of the day,
There’s always another harbour, safe and secure
That speaks of devotion and subtle allure.
You’ll sail about the headland, they confide to me
And see your new home, setting yourself free.

But no new headland will draw me back home,
No picturesque little fishing village will be my own,
The waving maidens on those white cliffs will not turn my head,
I set a different course to what had been said.

Because I’m branching out, heading for the horizon
And I am immune to the “Life goes on” poison.
I set a course for the abyss far from the shore,
Where I shall weather the storm no more.

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