(this is an imagining of a writer tasked with writing about a voyage into the unknown before the world was all mapped, when ships were the only way to go continent to continent)

nautical twilight

traveling out on these very sturdy oak boards,
pitched and yar on the earth herself,
land long past behind us now
a promise- a distance in front of us now
from outwardly run the captive mist of isles
and onward bound so I am tasked
to write of this supposed bounty, adventure
of land far past the eyes of any maps,
so in trust we sail on the captains word and keen
sitting under the lateen-rig yards
and at night surrounding ocean crowned with countless stars
in circles men unwind the day
yarns and tales round spike the ears
words and slurs round pass the ale
for most now I’ve heard these many days
monsters, mayhem and the soft serenades (of mermaids?)
but we never speak of-
never speak of that, as if the ocean
will swallow whole the mass
this quiet nervousness however is a chill past in night
doubt grows in passing hours, days
the wonder if wisdom was to turn back
but never speak of this-
never speak of this, looks lock to say
if they were but literate men may they write the same;
I’ve travelled many places on the fair continent
by caravan, by foot, by beast,
always something to see, feel and feast-
but here, danger breeds in the sameness swells
fear seethes out in that vastness casting spells,
and every day placed for the next,
ritualistic into effect for the coming breath,
the welcome consort of a racing dolphin escort
or a whale plume’s that recalls city-park fountains
or so I imagine, reminisce of the standing ground
of trees, of birds, all of these foreigners now
fleeting memories out of grasp of hand
now, after all these months,
I learn of the certainty of land.