The Coracle Oracle
Uncalled for, after he’d gone,
his boat made its rudderless journey home.
Just big enough for him alone,
a bobbing empty shell from which
the kernel of his life was absent.
Taken somewhere deep in the
vastness of the Atlantic deep,
the calm waves should not bring things
back like this.
Spring tide’s drift a sardonic gift,
a sideline in unproven death.
No oars or life inside,
just a ripped rag he might have
waved surrender with,
or used to stifle the last call of despair.
There is no knowing with no-one there.
So it ebbed and ran aground intact,
sinister at low tide,
but nobody of course would set off
in the boat again.