Poem: Boundless

Another poem from my collection in writing, Meditations.

It may be prefaced by these words from the conservative philosopher, Michael Oakeshott:

“In political activity . . . men sail a boundless and bottomless sea; there is neither harbour for shelter nor floor for anchorage, neither starting-place nor appointed destination. The enterprise is to keep afloat on an even keel.” 
― Michael Oakeshott

Boundless

… is what the meditator gets to
In the end, when asked
Who am I?

And when I ask myself?
A tired lanky man in his 50s
Who has just learnt to sleep.
Player of games.
Healer. Night Elf Priest.

Singer of dirges.
Essayist on time
And its cruel forgetting.
Reader – a man lost in words,

Like my relative
Whose index cards of the language
Were kept in an outhouse

And gave the world
a perfect reference.
A failed bureaucrat

That much I know.
A man ill suited for his times.
Neglected Cassandra

Watching his city burn.
A truly educated man
Adrift in the doldrums.

No port beckons.
No wind gathers.
There will be no homecoming.

The ocean never ends.
We are not equal to its currents.
Its storms overwhelm us.

We can only hope
We survive the shipwreck:
To make our home on a patch of strange land.

Jeff Rich