The Sailor

No compass to steer by,
no landmarks to aim for.
His skin a pale crust of salt,
shimmering in the distance if anyone would see him.

Dry and withered,
empty and drained.
He looses his hand upon the wheel,
and lets it spin.

Which wind blows,
and current flows,
to take him cross to shore.
The sailor is a tired soul,
not knowing where to land.

But when the gulls take wing,
and keep his company close,
he knows that fate has changed.
The sun is born,
and bears him hope,
this will be his last upon the boat.