Poetry Stories

Oh darling, it is no secret

This is how to find true north:

first find all other norths false,

littered with rubble from fallen idols,

all that glitters is pyrite; pyrrhic; permeable.

 

Forget magnetism, abandon all meridians –

cartography alone cannot account for this;

the seven seas already an ocean entire.

 

It is hard to hang a shingle with a hangnail,

clumsy fingers, wayward tongues,

torn sails and all hands on deck.

 

The first mate is first to mutiny.

The cabin boy a girl in disguise.

The parrot speaks in riddles, always,

dead men tell no tales, but you should hear their jokes.

 

A compass can only guide, not lead.

It is your feet that must move,

your hands that must row, and row, and row

towards an x that never wholly marks the spot.

 

When in doubt, look up.

Watch for clues lining cumulus clouds,

constellations, celestial signposts –

know you are not the first to see the stars fall.

 

We have nearly come to our white whale, our apogee.

Take my hand, I will teach you port from starboard.

I’ve walked left and right and recently,

shivered my timbers, walked

any number of planks.

Credits

Writing by Sharyn
Creative by Steph
Boat photography by Andrew Neel
Madina Script by Sam Parrett

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