The boat pulls on through the night,
steady and sure. I lash the helm
and go below, light up the GPS.
On Google Earth I have found
the exact co-ordinates of the prison,
the exact distance from this point
on the rolling bosom of the water.
I move the cursor and mark the bearing.
On deck again with a handheld compass
I orient myself as the foresail cracks and fills.
From some deep chamber of the heart
I mount a blessing on my breath and
bounce it off the moon — it curves off
and down to where, on a bare patch
of parched blue-lit concrete, a yard
deep inside high white walls, a flower
stands modest in the still air. I call
from the drifting mist of silence three drops
of dew to fall delicate on the yellow petals,
to slide with infinite grace to the very root.