Restoration

I sand the peeling paint
five coats deep
and listen to the surf of the sand.

And I long to spread the sails,
to have the sun wink at me
and to slice through the wave

and have its crest let white blood.

I patch the blue sails
on the single mast,
and the pines grow right out of the sand

and up through my trouser legs.

Hour after hour I cast the anchor further out, further out —
I like to haul it up afterwards and sail away
by night, while my hands rest from the needle.

I nail crooked planks
into the crooked breaches in the hull,
and the gulls play and cast an eye my way

and wait to lead me out into the far-out
and to shriek “goodbye” to the uncertain sands,
It’s good to have 90 metres of blue beneath

and no forgiveness.

I cut ropes and tie knots
I tie my impatience, too, into the pouch
of the sea snails. We are racing.

And the siren from the next bay
thinks I’m hanging around because of her.
She has no boat. She doesn’t know

that my voyage set out long ago.
And though I file the propeller with a rusty file
I am already with my friends,

and with those who sail far out
and come back
and with the others I already am.