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Original Poetry


The twilight settles, purple, gold. The gusts
have died away, the tide’s slow flood
moves nothing. The crew (one man) trusts,
not thinking on it, how his captain’s good
sense of hull, rig, tide, wind, keel,
will be enough to bring this catboat, small craft,
in with not one breath of wind to fill
the slack canvas. The two sit right aft,
hand to tiller, hand to sheet, the channel markers
pass in utter silence. Ghosting, a wraith
homeward bound, the catboat’s in her berth by dark.
It’s the unseen forces that drive us, or perhaps they pull,
and all that’s needed is confidence or faith.
The sail, even slack, is never less than full.

© 2009 David Hirzel

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