The Signpost

When I was an adventurous seafarer, I chose
a bright red signpost to guide me ashore
to my island, and from that point I would launch
back out to sea. On the ocean I would sail, clockwise.

When you strolled along the shingle beach
and you found my red sign,
propped upright between two heavy rocks in sand,
you laid it flat to photograph a wading bird.

Please respect the consequence
when the dawn has no entrance or exit.
Days of sailing round in ever tightening coils
of grey on grey – you go mad at sea.

The story has retold a thousand times;
of a snarling seadog, trapped and desperately scraping
claw on wood, gingerly dipping the hurt paw in salt water.
As you know, not all dogs can swim.

With no compassionate compass, I need:
a roof overhead, doors and windows to open,
space to sail, water to quench my life and keep it afloat
and a very visible signpost to guide me home.