Would that it were
Would that it were always like this:
child-like hand safe at harbour in Father’s grip,
viewing tomorrow’s distant clouds -
daubs in an ocean of blue.
A single wavelet gentle of touch
ambling over the shingled hem
of the sea’s rippling garment.
In forgetful moments, I won’t need anchorage
and drift in the seductive undulations of life.
Then squalling, darker, clouds of reality
obscure the horizon,
reassuring touch of sand
is beyond the reach of frightened toes.
Then it’s not the clasp of child
but Father’s firm grasp
that brings the treasure to safe haven.