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With light of day and rising tide,
A new wind on which to ride,
‘Tis time to cast off ways of old,
And chart a path in search of gold.
But first the anchor to raise,
Done in mariner’s olden ways.
Raise up the main sail and ply the sea,
Over the embedded anchor to break it free.
The anchor separates from mother earth,
And swings free like giving birth.
Soon it lays upon the deck,
Something for shin or toe to break.
Examine it to understand the skill to make,
An iron structure so shaped, that will take,
And hold a thousand times, its weight in place,
Against forces of nature and the human race.
T’was forged by the craftsman’s hand,
And shaped to gain purchase on the land.
No longer is the ship tied to the dirt below,
There’s need for direction to bestow.
A rudder’s there to steer free of tentacles.
Some Nature’s; others - manmade obstacles.
The rudder provides steering long known to man,
A simple device that direction can amend.
It digs deep into the water like a farmer’s plow,
Resisting change; or forges a way; as now.
A second blade to maintain a constant bearing,
Devised by man to provide self-steering,
Digs into the same water.
It’s a smaller, second rudder.
Driven by a vane in the wind,
This self steering device is the sailor’s friend.
It provides freedom to think, act, sleep or play,
Whatever escape is needed from dawn to last of day.
Wings stretched as if to gather up the wind,
Are seen if looking to the ship’s bow end.
See forged pieces of iron and steel,
Bent by the monger’s arm and will.
Balance is essential in this ship of old,
Her design is simple yet bold.
The bow-maiden reaches forward to sense direction,
And boldly thrust her way in silent satisfaction.
Without heavy iron in the keel,
This mighty ship would twist and heel,
Its balance lost and shifting with the wind,
But with the weight it goes where is intend(ed).
The ship, crewed by wooden men with heads of clay
Sails by night as well as day.
Its captained by a man with forge and will,
Distinguished by his iron tie and pedestal.
Who are the passengers on this ship?
Waiting two years to make this trip.
The girl-child sails to we know not where,
Her hair twisting in the air.
Sometimes it’s caught in her own hand,
To form geometric patterns as if by plan.
An activity reminiscent of the style,
Of Indians who stayed in this place, a while.
The other passenger carried along the way,
Is a companion of the Captain, come-what-may.
On canvas his id ‘s revealed to all,
Hanging there upon a galley wall.
The ship slows as winds of change slacken,
Sails droop and flail as the last energy ‘s taken.
The two migrants debark without delay,
This port-of-call reached, they’re on their way.
Lighter now than before,
She’s ready to test what life has in store.
Facing into the freshening air,
Sails fill and she sets off for place or places fair.
With hostile tide and currents out of the way,
Masterly sails the Great Ship -
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