EPIC

   III

So there she – a teenage girl – was:

A boat loosed from its moorings,
Its timbers warped,
With a dangerous cargo.

For while a sister's

Responsibility gave a harbour:
A little repair, painting,
Sorting of the freight

Not enough: cast out
Into the world's oceans without
A known port.  (The Saviour
She did not yet know was too
Outcast.)

Strangers provided

An unknown port – then
Commandeered; gay paint
And bunting could not disguise
The water-logging,
The volatile loading.

Still the lodestar

By which she had not yet learned
To navigate
Shone upon her.