Her hands bled.
Setting down the tools she had,
She admired her work.
A mighty tribute to her time spent
Weaving masts, welding wood,
Whittling down rough edges
Which were never really an issue to her-
Naturally, she knew where to tread
To avoid a nasty scrape.
Instead
It was for shoulders towering over unfamiliar footsteps.
The ghost crew she always envisioned
That would, surely, inevitably, probably,
Materialise before her very eyes
Now that the pieces were all in place
To conquer the horizons yonder.
She bounded onto the ship
And set sail immediately.
(The fatal flaw!)
Compasses hold more value than hammers at sea
And as she had no place to be –
She floated
Directionless
And that was all.
Her work
Pretty
And that was all.
Billows, bluster and steam
Sometimes it really hurts to dream.
.
.
Megan Hopkin
Illustration: Claire Palmer