The boy sat silently, still in his boat,
the oars he had shipped held firm in their locks
His brown hair relentlessly dripped on his coat
from salt spray that hitched the easterly wind
and blew in his face. His eyes were still pinned
where the sun had last risen, searching for rocks,
for the guidance of breakers eluding his sight.
He’d been lost on the sea all day and all night.

The gulls sat and mocked him, on gunwale and prow,
white-winged as they feasted, white droppings from fish
that painted and tainted the point of the scow.
The smell grew so bad he was glad that his gut
had been empty, unfed, for it kept his mouth shut.
One night more, one more day was all he could wish.
When morning the next day saw land found at last
the boy sat silently. Stilled: In the past.

			27 April 2024