found along an ancient map
where we sailed in an old, wooden boat

bobbing among the ways
brushing against imagined sea monsters
 
where they roared
and children stared

into the black expanse
guided by the Northern Lights
 

A cloud is born
   From river’s edge
      As rain begins to fly
 
The sun leaks out
   From building gaps
      As clouds and clear-sky mix
 
I seek a bridge
   A makeshift roof
      To hide and keep me dry
 
But then I see
   A mother mad—
      Her boy runs by and kicks
 
 
Frank Watson © 2016