Pristine and peaceful. 

Boats sat upon our plane of water  

with a smooth rock in the lake. 

 

We sought it, with slow progress  

somewhere round the bend— 

an Island too far to come back from. 

 

The forests fell on hills 

a blanket for warmth 

protecting against the worst winds. 

 

But then the hills were mountains 

and they loomed at us; 

their lurking clouds spat at us. 

 

Their forests were no quilt. 

The trees were sparse and harsh — 

horns and claws and spikes. 

 

Whipping the water 

a frenzy of waves 

and wind, a lost hat. 

 

No progress atop the water. 

Just a chaos 

I am taken  

 

under. 

 

Maybe the journey was foolish. 

Maybe the island was long past the bend 

maybe we’d already missed it.