Middle Of Nowhere

Middle of Nowhere


the oars are silent as they cut through
salt tears, only a thumb's breadth
between my body and the deep sea,
a puny protection, a figment, a pretence.

and in the distance, a smudge,
that each shoulder stretch,
each leaning and reaching
brings closer- a wedge of a wreck.

scrape the keel on the green-
slimed pinnacle slow-emerging,
ripples bounce off, send slow
wave upon wave to the distant shore.

I climb out, stand, tall, proud,
precarious, the king of my island:
fifty metres beneath my feet
sealed cans of olive oil,

the innocent victims, drowned,
far from home, in a foreign bay
where they rest, where I rest,
before the long paddle home.