As the clouds gathered around, scheming

to add to the ocean, huddled

from a sun seeming

close to giving up on getting a look in,

the indecision was late.

The salt in the air

teased tongue to lips repeatedly, whilst winds

chased breezes through a hair

much thinner now than when,

his voyage, he had first meditated.

Visions of triumphing over Poseidon

with measly means,

had been, as age did stride on,

increasingly cut short

with stills of a watery grave.

But when she died,

the final piece of encouragement

the reminder of mortality did provide.

So before the little boat

flaked too much to be saved,

he would venture out,

rusty though resolute,

years of tarrying and counselled doubt

now second-adolescent fearlessness,

to bury his what ifs at sea.