Bust Bag

treasure island

Once more I stride the emerald green. ‘Neath the crescent moon whose halo sheens. There over the rolls and atop the crests, I climb the ramparts where the osprey nests. She sleeps as you and I with the sands hissing the bleached woods creaking all in beat with the black tar sky. I was once her passerby. A boy, score and five, awash in branches and vines. Her air, I’ve remembered in time I remember my father, the creak in the chains, shrill tauts of line. Nothing but a dead horse drowned in wine. Up the straight I climb, palming faces long carved, to see her hair hitch the coral, my hands the wooden fo’c’sle. I am with her now, like my father, caught in a swell.