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.



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


And that was all.

Her work


And that was all.


Billows, bluster and steam

Sometimes it really hurts to dream.





Megan Hopkin
Illustration: Claire Palmer

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