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Tim looked at the strong box crafted in oaken wood saplings and reason

Inside a map of his world he had travelled with dreams gusto and passion

Far away seas crested in a whirl wind of passage collected within and

Not without a longing desire for sails full of change and direction afar 


A faded cross right pointed to where the treasure must lie and to where 

The chest was buried deep in the quick sand of time or was it a coffin

He was nailed boxed in wrapped up in oil paper stabbed with his anchor

A pirate had pulled the plug and Tim perched on a dry dock of thought


Cliff faces and reefs obstructed horizons and sails were glued to the mast

And the ‘must’ to end suffocation but the bilge was flooding and scuppered

The crow’s nest for outlook swung precariously from one side to other as

Jacob’s ladder had lost most of its rungs as even the transom cried treason


His torso wriggled in the trunk but the binnacle bowed not for the compass

But then the needle found headway where scrawny worms had gathered

Punctured the confinement and the boom chain snapped emotional drought

At long last and long may it last Tim found a ferry to the chest in his heart



02 March 2019

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