Wanderer

Little ship within a ship, one oar adrift
sail furled tight as a rollup, tight as a blind
that naval Dad always said he never went to sea.

Rudder tilts a shade to port
sails: the green of cricket pitches
no two grandmas in the stern
one crochets bog roll dollies
one chops boiled meat for the strays
no dog's head prow, no ship's cats, rats

That naval Dad - artificer - took the tiller
that mother with her three ringed madness
cakes and pies and sunning out with books

No wheel - just angles, lines of rigging
don't admit that you're encased, safe
looking out through glass at all
the high seas - dangerous, compelling