Through a porthole, I wait
for a break in the lonely sea.
Horrific flotsam passes by more regularly
over the fortnights.
Mother won’t look
for her conjurings of Styx.
The sky is clearer now
so I prefer to look up
and lift my nose for clearer air.
What if this is life now?
Adrift.
We’ll feed the largest to the smaller,
because large meat won’t keep.
The giraffes will take a lot of work.
Father says to wait and ration.
He wasted a raven, on a hopeless flight.
I wait on the horizon, but nothing.
Why us?
Alone and adrift on an endless sea.
Joe Spring writes 