Castaway

I cannot stop looking,
the way a castaway looks - hands shielding eyes -
with both hope and despair,
The promise of land, distant, yet visible.
I cannot stop imagining claiming that land;
leaning back against the sun baked earth,
solid, constant. Digging my fingers
into the soft silky sand, the long
billowing grasses wrap around me, in a lovers caress.

Trees grow there, laden with love, I pluck the fruits
and eat my fill, until I'm sated, brimful, overflowing, and still I eat
for you can never have too much and there is no end to the supply.
I would map every inch of my island, every hillock and rise,
every valley and dark dripping cave, discover where the water lies
cool and sweet, where the sun first touches at dawn,
where there is shelter from cruel winds and harsh words.

Despite my efforts to reach you
- frantically paddling with raw and blistered hands,
gulping gallon after gallon of salty water,
wishing on every distant mocking star,
praying- through parched lips- to every and any god -
time and tide are against me,
"sorry" you say, watching me drift.