I have been here before. I recognise my reflection in the sea but I am no narcissus, I see no future for me down there. Penelope I see, stitching, knitting, unravelling and avoiding my gaze but she has no interest in looking up, neither does that farmer ploughing in water
melons and cress,
or the captain of that stout ship as it sails on by...
melons and cress,
or the captain of that stout ship as it sails on by...
Odysseus
does he see us
does he see me
as I see him, sailing
round and round in circles, caught up in counterflows, riptides and dice throws that defy even the logic of chance. I'm learning to fly:
