A Boat

Susan Connolly
Slow pull of the tide's turning in your blood each day -
a sea, but not a real sea, draws slowly out;
a boat, not a real boat lies stranded '
on a harbour floor.
Rocked on the sea's arm, the boat pulls against
its mooring rope.
Find a way to loosen
this rope; although
it exists only in dream it is strong enough
to tether your life.
Climb into this boat this shell, drifting ,
so aimlessly without you. Steer, believing
it will protect you and will carry you far
 .  ,
npening slowly
to a small perfection.
Page 71, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 26