Stuff of dreams

 

I drew in the sail
a curtain trailing
rolling till it fit
neatly in its bag
and started the engine.
It was a fair night
light chop, nothing to frighten

someone watching the stars
and the mast lights
or the darkness of land
beyond.  After we got
there who could say?
It wasn’t an important
ending it always ends

that way and for much
the same reason.
Then in its slip
it was mere fiberglass
and wood not the
stuff of stars
and unending dreams.

It was left back
there and neglected.
Slipping over the side
I would see
another point of view,
you looking about
and not finding me.