Exile

A hundered days is not enough we need some diamonds a few good men or women a few good neighbors, come it to that. Elba is cold this time of year I've heard it said that home is where the heart is or maybe whoever said that meant to say that home is where the heart was when we were young. Singing around a bonfire, sausages popping open at their seams, the smell of alcohol secreted away within someones pack- just recalling makes you want to laugh, But on this beach, in this place the sand grabbing at your boots, the tilted hat upon your head holding purchase only through your force of will, the ocean is always roaring, so that is no excuse for your misgivings, and the wind will always spirit birds along upon its breath. In the distance, do you see the ship coming to sweep you back to war, do you see the albatross shaped within the sales? The rime of the mariner sounds inside your mind, even though you were never a navy man. looking out, in the cold, clear morning, do you see the the wings unfurled, the mast, charging upon them in a torrent? Or is an Island as good a place to die as any?