Conestoga Bark

by Tim Murphy

My mate feathers the spindled wheel
to right our tipsy bark,
luffing to windward as we heel
rail under in the dark.

Where boys are brown and salt air sweet,
seafarers find no rest
but wake aground in the waving wheat
that runs forever west.

“Conestoga Bark” previously appeared in The Chimaera and Lavender


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