It was the top of the mast at the breaking of bread
no islands to speak of in the ship
of the dead
and the albatross wondered as he soared up above
where is the one I heard they called love?
but we knew he’d been buried along with his flock
and the cross had been chopped into wood for the fires
lost hearts and desires
and the violin in the background plays me a tune
at the top of the mast under a cold Autumn moon.
I tried to wrap the ocean
but the ocean unwrapped me.
© 2018, John Smallshaw.