The boy looked out to sea:
past scrub spruce on rocky tors,
his gaze skipped over gravel shingle
whispering an ageless sough to the sea.
There! Across the reach, beyond the island!
The tiny sail touching the horizon
would stay with the boy for hours,
traversing his lilliputian world.
Later, an economic refugee
"going down the road,"
the boy was reminded of the sail
as he watched through the night
on the "Maritime Express."
Small pools of light would appear
in the Stygian darkness of a New Brunswick night:
reminders of comfort and home.
On the horizon of my life I have seen many sails.
Some have docked, sojourned,
to become part of my life for a while.
Others passed, unknown, into the vortex of Time.
I only wish, at this late date,
that I had tried harder, made more effort,
to make the journeys of others
as joyous as my own.
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