The Anchor.

Windswept and tidal games

It seems we move Under directionless dark guides Inertial forces in play around us Unseen and relentless, A vice-like grip on slipstream currents Carrying us away like brittle leaves On dry sand rivers.

The anchor drops and holds Back remorseless pressure, Marking a spot upon which we stand And plan a path of our choosing; A secret door in time Firmly fixed with black lock And golden key.

Down deep the heavy anchor Persists in light-less certainty; Ignorant of raging storms above Doing the thing That gravity demands; Embrace the earth And guide us home.