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Voyage West
Sea breezes
flow over wet skin.
Cold and thin.
The breath of Boreas.
Above, the sail thick
booms in the gust.
West we sail.
Sail we must.
A bright orange sun stings our eyes
as we stare to where our new day lies,
to forests and plains.
Hot rains.
Gold wrought by savage tribes,
cast out from Eden
to a different paradise.
"Ho!"
The lookout cries.
A finger to the skies.
Ropes snap taught.
Clouds part,
as the moon in silver gleam shines down.
A screech from above,
and all hear the sound.
A glint on the horizon leaps.
Land is found.
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