Argonauts, day 11

Argonauts.

Constantly knitting purpose for themselves

The café crowd Albanians sat

Hermetic behind the silence between us.

These could be the Argonauts.

I could not censor the thought,

They believed in fleeces,

Abandoned their homes, traded for tales of gold

And now pitched up here, still golden with myth,

Losing the girls they’d tell when they’re rich.

I looked for signs of regret round their eyes

Finding none, not yet, I consoled myself:

All sour things come in time and wished them ill,

For their faith in each other, waterproof, square rigged

And the stories I knew they’d become.