Telemachus, My Son
Already Winter has besieged my beard.
There is no other, or rival, you have, my son,
Who understand the sands like you –
Who knows the waves,
The patterns that they sport –
And how the deep comes crashing to the shore,
All its weeds washed up, slime too,
White foam ablaze in salty heat,
Sun baking the parchment of the land,
Summer no joy either, but still
A promontory of opportunity
For those not swayed by this or that,
For those who are true to their own soul’s course.
That is you, my son, Telemachus.
I come to the harbour
To reclaim the island that is yours.
No-one my son