Out Past Sea

As the dingy boat shack rides the affronting waves,
Beaten back and farther back still by the winds
Whipping up salt and endless spray of clouds,
And the cobbled captain samples a taste of his course,
Wanting no sand, clay or dirt in the grip of his palm,
Caring not for the counsel that sent him, caring only
For the senses that steer his steel-shackled horse,
Knowing within that long ahead sprawls a behemoth
Of land, fitted with fertile soil and all its green ornaments,
Then rights his course, aligning with the spine of the sea:
So I right myself in denying the fruits of my home,
And as the captain lives to ride the waves, I walk on alone.