Two drunk sailors sat
on the prow of the ship and sang
a long song of travel and adventure.
Jonah spoke of Natural History with aplomb.
Sucking on lemons,
Their voices were sharp and salty
Vibrating through the purple night.
It seemed to them that the ship was piloting itself,
Ploughing towards the horizon,
The sails neatly trimmed
And they waited and the ghost ship went on south.
Twenty years later, on an acre in Bruges,
Ploughing the dark soil,
I met Jonah, whose eyes were tired and needed rest
Before he knew where he would go next.