A Further Shore

A FURTHER SHORE

A prospect even more unnerving than 
the present storm itself (and what a storm

it is,) is the divisive rift between

the wary captain and his restless crew,

a rift concerning the strip of shore the helmsman

glimpsed in peering through the flecking spray.

This rift is but a problem of semantics,

really, as to the cautious captain "glimpse"

is insufficient evidence to navigate 

a ship. The captain, hardened by the pitch

and toss of maritime uncertainty, 
has grown (if we can call it that) to solely

trust his calculating instruments 

for ample proof of verity—he doubts

all means of knowing other than the cockpit's

many gauges, though even these he's wary

of at times. "I've seen," he often claims,

"enough salt-eaten skeletons aground

to chase a mere mirage." But now his crew

is desperate, past the point demanding sure

success, and eager to attempt whatever

course they deem imperative to reach

a further shore—to them, a telling tingle

in the bones or just a half-convicted

glance of more than waves is worth a shot.

What both agree, regardless of the current

variance, is that it’s difficult

to navigate a ship with stinging eyes

and lashes taut from wind. Furthermore,

it’s not an issue of debate that as

they are the present circumstances call

for an escape, that what is underneath

the boat is dark and deadly. The question, then,

is not so much the destination but

the necessary route of getting there.

Here, crew and captain must achieve

a common ground of sorts, and well, soon—

leaks have begun to spring along the deck.