Chrysogonus #45 - old compass

old compass

compass in the box

in a corner of my room

mute storyteller

remember through its rust

every drop of salt water

and the seagull’s song

all whom were met in the ocean

inside my great grandfather’s

cotton pocket

the needle remembers north

but it no longer points

to the village from which it fled

all those fears of its possessor

walking under cover of darkness

hiding in the forest

the compass recalls every step

back to a place called home

far from this faraway country

I can hold in my hand

this yearning for place

for the past

all lost now

in the cold steel casing

of this needle refusing to point