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Other writing: Last Thoughts on the Medusa

 Wasafiri Vol 23, Nº4 December 2008


A ship, someone cries, and they all begin to stir. The air between them charged with hope. Stay still, he says. Not everyone at once. The boat will tip over. And for a moment he thought it truly would.
A scarf is waving high up in the bow. A dark figure silhouetted against the sky, shouting at the dying light of day as these men, who are no more than lean boys, try to raise themselves above the waves to glimpse the miracle. A ship? What difference could it make now?
The engine had stopped hours ago. The fuel tank ran dry leaving the boat rising and falling on the fluttering wings of this salty harness. A remarkable thing the sea. If allowed another life, perhaps he might devote time to it. This enormous cradle in which we rock, bereft.

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