Now you, my rock, can’t be seen to guide me
I walk the pace of the captain giving orders
between the windows of this, our house
watching the rain fall on the forecastle
also known as the front borders.
The sunflowers wave while the greyish clouds
foam violently, a yellow turmoil sea and fast
my laundry sails, finding wind on the quarterdeck.
Two cats climb swiftly to be our look out
way up in the apple tree mast.
All is well, the crew seems tired but happy,
though the ship is sinking and a storm rages.
We took over the vessel, we wan from the pirates
and soon we shall enter port. There’s my rock.
I haven’t seen land in ages.