Come now, little old lady.
Come and sit quietly here in this rocking chair beside me.
Tell me:
are you sailing at last
into quiet waters,
your mind a spacious okay with what is?
Your old dog following behind?
No! Oh come now!
At your age?
A new boat?
crawling through hatches,
leaping shore-ward,
crashing your vessel into
channel markers,
and jetties?
Come now!
Your knees won’t bend
You cannot squat
or see
or hear!
Your memory …
What memory?

  • What did you say?
  • Was it the three fingers up sign for weighing anchor?
  • Or two?
  • And then turn on the ignition?
  • And that knot – right over left, then left over right?

Come now yourself!
I love it!
The too cold,
the sunburn
the taunting of  danger.
Heaven knows,
danger will come calling soon enough
and will win.
But now
in my boat
danger and I are equals.
Sometimes she wins,
sometimes I.
I’m liquid with laughter
at the humour of it – of all of it!
And when I tie her up for the night,
bed her down amongst the reeds
and boil a billy for a nice hot cup of tea,
I smile.
I’m sailing.
But not into quiet waters,

Liz Hobbs

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