Fifth
Come fifth misty morning, two were missing, four were starving. And still no mountain on our horizon, only endless meadows around our skiff. Wind is null, sun is high and the warmth has once again escaped. Slowly adrift towards unknown shores, starless skies and absent gods. The skiff is wet, the sea is wet, the air is wet. Damp, foul with mold growing around us, across us and inside us. Its spores filling the air with strange spices, bright colours and promises of distant kingdoms and riches. Distant lights stare through the thick grey; solemn and disinterested. We lay back and hum and mumble, to the chords of our bellies' rumble, and the steady beat of clucking waves leaping at our wooden floor boards.
