THE SEVEN SEAS IN A THIMBLE

CRESCENT MOON

Upon the three legged

Wooden stool

In the lantern room

Of the relic lighthouse

The last man standing

Kept the seven seas

In a thimble

 

Long since Armageddon

Had followed in the wake of

The cataclysm

Not that he could

Recall the event

He had been a mere mite

Back then,

Then, when the vital flame

Had given up the ghost

 

Within his orange jumpsuit

A subliminally treasured

Parchment of scribbling’s

Containing all the history

That there was –

Not that he knew that

 

Bereft of language

He spoke within himself

A dialogue of impressions

Some captured from experience

Others from flights of fancy

 

The miracle of sustenance!

Tinned nourishment aplenty

Sell by dates an

Extraneous cryptograph

A can opener and fork

Coupled with lucky logic

Served to fill his rumbling belly

Yet left to his own devices

And perplexing desires

He fanaticized

All manner of things

 

One chilly dawn

He chanced upon a telescope

Washed up on the beach

Fathomed its usage

Resolved night-time was best

 

Then, with the gelding of

The cumulonimbus and

The night sky stripped bare

A salacious heavenly body

Revealed a sensual convex

A sheer white crescent

With nowhere to hide

 

The ogler, his eye to the lens

As butler to a keyhole

From days of yore, he

Indulged in his intimate longing

Always hankering for

That little bit more

 

That she would return again

After thirty sleeps, a given.

Even so, there was always

The nagging question

‘Was there ever more than this?’

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