So near we sailed, home's breezes carried scents
We'd missed. But we uncinched the bag of winds
That blew us back to sea. Now pork I fear
To be my end, her witch's spell a muck
in which I sink....This grunt-and-snuffle form's
no way for man to die.
Beauty smooth as tide-washed stone, she guides
the Captain past. I press this snout against
the slats and weep to hope his craft might free
us all. Youth's shores seem soldier's fantasies
we dreamed encamped at Troy.
by Don Roberts