A New World

“Hey Jack,” calls his dad. “Have you got all your things? Our Wildsmith adventure’s about to begin!”

He trudges downstairs, at the speed of a hearse.

A week with his folks – could it get any worse?

“You! Pick up the pace boy, or you’ll get the lash!” He stumbles, legs weak, nearly dropping the cask.

With eyes to the floor, his face echoes the fear

Of all those the press gang has snatched and forced here.

Bump, bump, down the steps, with a rattle and clack, He drags his mum’s case down the cracked concrete path. He moans to himself, God, this thing weighs a ton.

Oh, what I would give to avoid this forced fun!

He heads up the gangway’s steep salt-pitted slope, Bent double beneath the oak barrel’s sheer bulk, And making his way to the ship’s dark, damp lair, He throws up in vain, a last desperate prayer.

The air starts to cool and low clouds start to spit. The wipers beat out their hypnotic-like riff.

Dad winds up the windows to keep out the breeze, And turns up the heating a few more degrees.

The deafening storm tears the sail from its mast, And waves toss the ship like a toy in a bath. He grabs for the rope, numbed by terror and cold. As icy winds whip him, he fights to cling hold.

He says to his dad, “Can we stop for some food? A burger or something would really be good.” A few minutes later, just off the M5,

He sits to tuck into his Big Mac and fries.

His stomach is cramping, his strength almost spent. He craves a ship’s biscuit – two days since he ate.

His gums are all bleeding. He’s covered in sores. He longs for some food from the vermin-filled stores.

The winding road narrows and dad says, concerned, “It looks like we’ve probably made a wrong turn.” But satnav kicks in, and with no more mistakes, They’re safely en route to their lodge in the Lakes.

His captain had claimed, ‘We’ll discover new lands!” But compass and sextant had failed at this plan. Now lost and adrift, waiting out his last days, He closes his eyes, seeks his mother’s kind gaze.