• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 10
Image by


Four days after the storm,
salt-rimed, sun-baked,
half mad with thirst,
I commend my soul to God,
close my eyes
and wait to die;
feeling only
the splintered wood
beneath my cheek
and burning heat
upon my back.
Life ebbs and flows...
I teeter on the edge
of nothingness…

'…Wake up good sir,
you’re nearly at the island.’
Something warm,
and whiskery,
nudges at my chin.
I prise apart my gritted eyelids.
The pig smiles, treading water,
‘That’s better, my friend,
let me help you ashore.’
He catches my trailing hand
gently in his mouth,
towing me towards
a silver beach.



He takes me to a stream
that runs across a bed
of hefty pebbles
from the wood, to the sea.
and I drink myself
half drunk on water.
He’s very conversational;
explaining the topography;
showing me the wood of bong trees;
taking me up the hill
to meet the turkey,
who likes to discourse upon
the finer points of theology.
Apparently the owl
and the pussycat
are currently travelling,
but due back,
in their pea-green boat,
sometime next week.

Later, by the light of the moon,
I sit upon a palliasse
made of bong tree leaves
stuffed with turkey down,
and suck pork fat
from my fingers;
reclaiming a little of my sanity,
but knowing I must stay mad enough
for there to be
a pea-green boat
sometime next week…