I am a thousand years old

riding a motorized skiff

that has done with sails

as Nemo’s submarine

used once to cross oceans

taking time in leagues.


I am not alive

until the spray touches my face,

the salty mist kicked up from the sea.


On the horizon an image arises.

as a torn paper backdrop

jagged and rocky,

a mountainous barge

floating in a purple haze

lost in a frontier of waves,

thoughts of a last hope


a temptress of sanctuary

awaiting a castaway.


Beneath the shimmer of liquid glass

is a hidden life of cavernous ranges

lakes and rivers held under pressure.


I float above the depths

the roll tossing legs to bow

shipmates standing at the bow

leagues above a world below.


I sail on,

with and without them,

I am a thousand years old.


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