I awake in the early light
to the smack of water between the hulls.
Something draws me to the tiny porthole by my berth,
not a sound really, more a sensation.
And there on the horizon through the glass
looms an ocean liner of such size
it appears mythic.
All glinting steel and glass,
a beacon under the new sun,
this monolith of turbines and chrome
cutting a swath a football field wide
yet so far away
that neither the bellowing of her engines
nor the roar of her wake reach me,
rendering her, eerily, lifeless,
a paint-by-number colossus,
frozen in a dead calm sea.
Too far away to decipher details
so I settle for only imagining
the early morning risers
now assembling on her decks,
settling into chairs with their first coffees,
breathing in the panorama before them.
Conversation would be hushed, expectant,
Another idyllic day at sea ahead.
Do they see me?
My tiny sailboat moored off a small island,
Might they conjure me too,
Whether I am awake yet,
Where I sail to? From?
What name is painted across my bow.
Will some raise their binoculars to learn more
And watch as my sails fade away behind them,
Before they turn back to their morning.
(Gorda Sound, British Virgin Islands.)