Ensign
I heard your voice
as it hitched a ride
on the coat-tails
of summer.
At its slow inflection
a world unfurled,
bobbed like
a painted sail.
I cast off now
in fear of the edge
and in expectation
of New England.
Fathomed or landed
on this squall’s fair side,
a ship may fly
where it falls.
* Abi Wyatt writes for her life near Redruth in Cornwall. Every days represents a small victory.