West

Nine days out on the whale-road

and the gulls have given up on us.

We lost the youngest on the fourth night —

no shout, nothing anyone heard,

just a gap on the oar at first light

and his water ration going spare.

West. West. West.

Out past the swan's bath, past the telling.

If there's an edge out here we'll find it.

If there isn't, then it's mine.

I have a crystal and a hunch.

Ran keeps a net down there

for the crews who guessed it wrong,

and the mare of the surf goes on.

West. West. West.

The crew have stopped their arguing.

We swore on the iron ring at the prow

and the ring does not renegotiate.

Green on the water at first light.

Not weed. Not a trick of it.

Land, and a haze standing off it,

and no ships to meet us at all.

West. West. West.

Somebody built a whole world here

and left it entirely unguarded,

and I have arrived in it.