Waystation

I.

On the bedstand in the room where I wait
out the storm sits
a globe. So close to my head, still
I ignore her until well past the witching hour
when the urge to roam
is stymied by snow. I feel
for a cord
on a whim.

Suddenly the dark, squat sphere
is lit from within. In her parchment
glow, I trace shadows
of mountains on the ocean floor, fault
lines in the crust fathoms
below a surface whose smooth second
dimension is all she bares in the cool light of day.

When darkness descends and sleep
evades, when gazing into a thing
is required, I follow
the gulf stream from where it skirts
my capital city pressing
me so close to the coast, east
and slightly north, ever toward
the British Isles where it glances
off the Out Stack and flows
toward the Arctic chill.
Everyone's compass point,
like it or not, true
north.
That frozen place
where one had better learn to hunt and grow
a pelt because the days may be lengthening
but winter has only just begun.

II.

Why not? My hand
wonders. Why not
ignore the drift, resist
the pull? Haven't we all learned
when caught in a riptide, swim
parallel to the shore?
Barbados, perhaps?
Trinidad?
Suriname?
Other currents can guide
a willing vessel just as well.
It only takes a bit of muscle, sense
of the stars, consideration
of lesser known ports
whose names are shaped by a tongue I have
yet to learn.