At the Helm

At the sound of a distant bell,
I emerged—shaken like a heavy drop
from some grey storm cloud—
to find myself plopped aboard a barge,
well appointed with cushions, cats
and flagons of tea.

Of any flu suffered,
this surely the most benign,
ranging from cloud-like
to ocean-going,
aching limbs creaking
with each rolling pitch.

When, from this voyage,
I emerge, perhaps
it will be to discover
my cloud was the one
that burst upon our damply
blooming flower-beds.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen