My Compass Poem by Anthony Burge

My compass is haywire,

reads true false, not true north.

Lost of all bearings,

I can't plot my course.

Get a grip on the tiller.

Rein in wild sea-horse.

Stormy seas are approaching,

Fierce winds soon gale force.

No twinkle of stars

fixed on celestial map.

Re-furl salty canvas

Batten down forehead hatch.

From the aft deck awash,

through the thickening fog

lopes a black as coal hound,

Aamost sorrowful dog.

Black hound hunkered down

on black cloud at my feet

Head tucked tight to tail

Eyes shut to blinding sleet.

Lash myself to the yardarm,

to weather sting of storm.

Close my eyes visualise

some place colourful and warm.

Black clouds sail the wind.

Thunder rumbled away.

Warm blooded sun

reignites the day.

The once dappled grey sky

now the colour of wheat.

I open my eyes

black dog's gone from my feet.

It's true there is light

just around the next bend

be it kindred soul sailors

or family and friends

Set your moorings, drop anchor, seek strength in support.

We can weather whatever

comes our way once in port.

No compass to guide me.

No satellite phone.

I embraced the lone wolf

he guided me home.

With black dog beside me, my compass in hand

I'll again find my way

to the shelter of land.